Sacrifice
by Child of Loki
Summary: How far is one friend willing to go to save the life, or secure the happiness of another? Nell/Callen Friendship/(eventual) Romance (Now Rated M for smut in later chapters.)
1. Chapter 1

**Dislcaimer: I don't own **_**NCIS:LA **_**or its characters…**

**Author's Note: So, lots of random storylines/scenes involving Callen and Nell have been plaguing me lately. Here's another, which could be a stand alone (written purely for the emotional content) or could be expanded/continued (for better fleshing out the context).**

**Nell/Callen Friendship, but you could read more into it, if that works for you.**

**WARNING: CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND SCENES OF MINOR VIOLENCE (NOTHING GRAPHIC)**

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It was such a classic showdown, that Nell Jones would've found it laughable if she wasn't in the midst of it.

Or not.

G Callen had slowly approached, SIG drawn, until he was ordered to stop just a few yards in front of the black SUV he'd driven out to the remotest of remote desert locales. He was wearing what Nell and Eric secretly called 'Angry Callen Face'. All business, and barely restrained fury. He was less than 30 feet away, but surprisingly she didn't feel the instinctual compulsion to run to him. Perhaps, it was because she was just so damned relieved to see him. Perhaps, it was the large hand clamped down on the back of her neck, and the Beretta that had been pointed at her skull but was now trained on the very irate federal agent shouting at the group of thugs standing in the middle of the desert.

"I'm here," Callen said. "What do you want?"

The tall, suited man of Nell Jones' party (ha, 'party!' hardly an appropriate word to describe what was in no way a good time) stepped forward a pace, and Nell caught the flicker of recognition on her would-be-rescuer's face. She found it hard to believe, after listening to hours of the asshole's lecturing and ranting about the traitor G Callen and the necessity of retribution, the nature of Honor...blah, blah, blah... that her captor had not already revealed his identity to the agent he was fixated upon, apparently choosing to anonymously negotiate this meeting for Nell's return.

_Goddamnit, Callen, what is it about you that makes all of these psychos obsess about avenging themselves upon you? How can you even keep track?_

"Lukas Braun."

"Oh, you remember me, Mr. Callen?" he asked, his tone oddly conversational compared to the rage that flared while he ranted against his nemesis, the emotion thickening his Germanic accent.

"Yes." The gun didn't waver, but she saw the muscles in Callen's jaw clench.

"Then you must also recall that there is a debt owed between us," Braun said, pacing slowly until he halted before Nell, glanced at her. She glared back, but only half-heartedly. She was pissed off, but also terrified. And the only glimmer of hope she could grasp onto was the agent standing so close yet impossibly far from her.

"How should you pay this debt, I wonder?"

Nell felt a cold spot form in her stomach. Surprisingly, despite knocking her around when she resisted, the group of thugs hadn't hurt her. They apparently weren't sadistic. But the tone in Braun's voice intimated that if he thought Callen valued her enough, that her death would repay whatever 'debt' the agent owed, then he would kill her.

"Me for her," Callen said. There was no response, and Callen seemed to realize at the same moment as Nell that his offer was a mistake, that he'd revealed she was important enough to him that he'd sacrifice himself for her. Therefore, harming her _would_ hurt him.

"So... I did capture the correct one," Braun said, grabbing Nell's chin and forcing her to look up so as to study her face. "I suppose she's pretty... in a way."

Her captor looked her straight in the eye, his expression cold and dark, unforgiving, before he turned away and ordered her death.

"Kill her."

"Wait!" Callen shouted, as she was tossed towards the man apparently designated to do the dirty job of blowing her brains out. She stumbled into him, a giant, muscular bulk covered in sweaty t-shirt. Hands like the paws of a grizzly clamped down on her shoulders and she was preparing for a fight to the death, literally, when the man in charge echoed Callen's cry to stop the execution proceedings. Her hair had fallen in a curtain in front of her face, but given a brief reprieve, she tossed her head back, clearing her vision, and _oh, god, no!_

Somehow, she broke the hold the large goon had on her, perhaps out of the pure intense ferocity of her shocked, reflexive reaction. The threat to her own life hadn't been enough, but now there was only one thought. Not a confusing, sickening combination of various emotions, the fear of death, fear of not dying immediately and suffering, thoughts of leaving those she loved behind, and regrets. Now there was just one thought, one instinct. To get to _him_.

G Callen had the most intent expression on his face, his blue eyes as bright as the sky and as fierce as the blazing sun. The sun that was glinting off the nickel-plated P226 he held tucked up under his chin, the muzzle kissing his flesh in the most sinister of embraces.

She only made it a single step before a terrific pain seared over her scalp and stopped her in her tracks. And then she was tugged backward by the hank of her hair grasped in the meaty paw of her designated executioner. She fell backward onto her ass, twisting about on the ground in a futile attempt to free herself, screaming at the man whose primary bargaining chip had somehow become to commit suicide.

"Let her go, and I'll give myself up." Callen's voice was eerily calm, and only made her cries for him to stop, to get the hell out of there, sound all the more desperate. "The other option is I pull this trigger and your Honor is never satisfied. And you have _my _word of Honor on that."

Lukas Braun was quiet as he mulled the proposition over. Callen glanced at her, briefly, but she'd been staring at him, willing him not to do any of the things he just promised, and caught the blue eyes that tore through her soul. His calm confidence settled her and she stopped shouting at him and struggling against the painful, pulling hold setting her scalp aflame.

"You turned me over to suffer the most horrific torture, yet you were following orders and I still believe you to be a man of Honor," Braun said. "We have a bargain."

"She takes my SUV, and when she's far enough away, I'll surrender to you." Callen continued to hold the gun flush to his neck. "And you _will not _take any further action against her or anyone else just to hurt me."

"I think you will find that harming your friends is not required to _hurt _you, G Callen."

Braun grinned wolfishly and Nell felt a wave of protective anger flare up. She dug her nails into the wrist of the hand that was twisted into her hair, and thrashed madly, trying to get her feet under herself for better leverage, to stand and fight. But sometimes the ground was a better place to be, and so instead she hunkered down and kicked out, striking the thug in the knee and causing it to buckle with a loud, satisfying crunch. She sprung up and ran.

This time she made it ten whole feet closer to her destination, before she was tackled to the ground by one of the smaller, but no less powerful of Braun's men. Unfortunately, she failed to put up much of a struggle, since he'd forced the air from her lungs when he knocked her bodily to the rough, baked desert topsoil. He twisted her arm behind her back and half-marched, half-hauled her back to the Bad Guys' side. She was angry, frustrated at being thwarted, aching everywhere, but still slightly satisfied to see the big man rolling about and moaning on the ground, clutching at his shattered knee.

"None of this will work, however, if you don't convince your little Ginger-Snap to cooperate," Braun said to Callen.

"Nell."

_His voice_. How could she not look into the blue eyes that sought her out? How could she not listen to the words of the man staring at her like she was the only person in the universe?

"You will take the SUV and go back to Los Angeles. That's an order."

He slowly, exaggeratedly pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them in the dirt a couple feet before her. She was released from the arm lock and instructed to get her 'tiny freckled ass' moving by Braun.

But she couldn't. She couldn't just leave Callen. Did he really come here alone? He couldn't have come here alone. She looked about, scanned the barren horizon for a glint of light reflecting off the scope of Kensi's sniper rifle, the merest hint of a good blind where Sam Hanna and Marty Deeks were hiding in wait. Or a shimmer in the air that denoted a small UAV watching from overhead.

But there was nothing.

There was no plan.

Or this _was_ The Plan.

"This is a stupid plan, Callen." She didn't want to leave him in hostility, but she suddenly was angry at him, for choosing her life over his own, for making her run away.

"Nell, you have to go. This is the only win we're going to get out of this."

She swallowed back her anger and fear, picked up the keys and began to walk towards the SUV. Maybe they could run toward the vehicle, together. When she reached him, she would just grab his hand and pull him along with her. She recognized the Excursion. It was from the OSP's motor pool, a tactical unit vehicle, equipped with bullet-proof glass and moderate armor plating in the doors and side panels. If they could just get to the SUV... The logical part of her brain, just as Callen already apparently concluded himself, pointed out that their survival in such a situation was an impossibility. The Bad Guys were six (well five, not counting blown knee, laying on the ground in agony, brute) strong, all armed and two equipped with assault rifles. They would be cut down quite quickly upon Lukas Braun's order. And while the best prize appeared to be to take Callen alive... in order to... to _torture _him, their deaths would be preferable to letting them escape entirely.

"Let me say goodbye to her," Callen said, a quaver in his voice that was all too sincere for Nell's breaking heart.

"Fine. Make it quick." Braun's patience was getting thin.

She paused just before him, but off to the side, so as not to block his view of his enemies. The cursed SIG never wavered from his throat. God, the man had nerves of steel.

"Go straight to Hetty." He was still giving orders, as if... as if all of this was routine. Her being jumped and kidnapped outside the supermarket, drugged and waking up in a dark place, lectured on the evils of the man she probably respected most in the entire world, dragged to the middle of the desert and ordered by the very same man to abandon him to an unimaginably cruel fate. No. This was not routine.

"Don't do this, Callen," she pleaded one last time, knowing it was futile, but needing to make the desperate attempt nonetheless. "Please."

"Be strong, Nell," he said. "Go straight to Hetty. No stopping." His maddening resolve faltered, and she saw the fear flash in the depths of his oh-so-beautiful eyes, before they became as hard as steel once more. "Don't look Back."

He stepped forward and around her, nudging her into motion with his elbow, the solidity of his back pressing against hers ever so briefly before she began to walk the final few yards to her freedom, knowing he was covering her, shielding her body as much as he could, standing between her and the enemy, even as she abandoned him.

Her emotional self must have shut down momentarily, for it was the only way she could have climbed up into the SUV, put the key into the ignition, turned the engine over, and driven away. As she drove, Nell coldly considered her options. She was now in an armored vehicle, stocked by the OSP. But they had searched it after Callen had exited, stripping it of the rather substantial arsenal stashed in the trunk and glove box. So she had no weapons except the vehicle itself. She could turn around, and run those bastards down. But she couldn't be certain that she wouldn't maim or kill Callen in the process. Not without...he'd told her not to look back.

But if there was a chance, surely she should take it.

It was generally automatic programming that she glanced into car mirrors periodically as she drove, but she had avoided them all in the maybe five or ten seconds she'd been driving through the open desert. So obviously not quite on autopilot. And now, now she _had_ to look.

She felt bile rise up fast in the back of her throat and she swallowed it down, averting her eyes quickly. But then she was drawn to look again, like a gawker mesmerized by a train crash. Only she knew the doomed passenger. The Excursion was kicking up a lot of dust despite her reluctant speed, but the cloud was unfortunately not enough to obscure the scene behind her. The group was a tight knot of men, and she could only briefly see the flash of Callen's cerulean shirt close to the ground as they shifted about the fallen figure, taking turns kicking at him.

Nell wanted to die. Wanted to go back and throw herself on the older agent, to shield him with her own smaller, frailer body. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he could suffer while she went unharmed, that she be burdened with the guilt of his pain and free of her own physical agony. But damn her, she was too fucking intelligent for her own good. She knew the best course of action was precisely as he suggested, to go get help, back up, and rescue him. But why hadn't he done that in the first place? Why hadn't the fool brought help along to save her? Did he really believe it wasn't worth the slight risk that the team would be found out and she would be killed? _What the hell was wrong with the man? _

Tears were streaming down her cheeks in a torrent so severe as to blur her vision. She swiped at them, pounded her open palms on the steering wheel in desperate, helpless rage.

Stupid, fucking _stupid_. Fucking idiotic, stupid, stupid, _stupid,_ noble man.

She swiped away even more tears.

She'd find him. She was going to get a gun, and some friends with guns and find him. And save his _stupid _ass. How dare he! How dare he sacrifice himself for her!

He wasn't going to get away with this.

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**A/N: What do you think? In some ways, I like this scene on its own. I know it raises a lot of questions as to how precisely they got here and how it will be resolved, but those are superficial aspects, I think, as opposed to the emotional content I was entirely taken by. Love me some noble self-sacrifice. And it's something I think is at the core of Callen.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Chapter 2**

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**Author's Note: I wrote this at the same time I wrote the first part, but wasn't going to post it because I sort of liked the first scene as a stand alone. That being said, after re-reading this, there are parts I undeniably like about it, and thought I might as well share it.**

**Also of note, I wrote this shortly after watching the episodes with the whole Joelle-thing. So yes, that's referenced here. (I find it interesting that it has yet to be mentioned in Season Six… well, I'm only three episodes in… and they do have a tendency to forget about the facts of their characters' personal lives… but still...)**

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It had been eight hours. Eight hours and she'd seen neither hide nor hair of him. She'd forced him to eat soup, take the copious amounts of pain meds and antibiotics, updated him on the status of the team, making sure to relay the extra monotonous casework, until he'd passed out and she tucked him in, silently slipping out of her bedroom and closing the door behind her. She'd more or less successfully managed to distract herself for the past eight hours with house chores and digital paperwork, until the anxiety had built to a degree where her worry for him outweighed her desire to let him rest and heal.

Nell Jones placed her hand on the doorknob, hesitated. If he was sleeping this soundly, he obviously needed... the memory of finding G Callen, covered in blood and bruises... and... and... he needed the rest. But what if the doctors had missed something, some internal damage, and he… She opened the door, nearly sighed in relief when she saw him in her bed, still breathing. And then she frowned. Because it was obvious from even across the room that the man was alive for the disturbed slumber he suffered. Various of his muscles twitched periodically, and there was this _awful_ keening whine emanating from deep in his throat. He couldn't be in real physical agony, could he? Surely, he wouldn't still be unconscious, if his... his wounds were paining him?

He was overdue for pain meds. She turned away, as if to run and get them, stopped in her tracks as he moaned a little more loudly, the noise tearing through her heart. She turned back, froze as her brain overloaded with a thousand useless suggestions as to how to help the suffering man in her bed, _her_ bed, _her_ home. She'd brought him to her home because he was her responsibility. She wouldn't abandon him. She would never abandon him again. Never.

She moved closer, standing over him. He was in obvious emotional distress, but what could she do? There was a slight sheen of sweat on his skin, but he was neither overly flushed or pale. She didn't think it was a fever. Just bad dreams. Bad memories. Nightmares. Nightmares in which he doubtless suffered alone, in the dark basement of an old farm house, being cut with a rusty paring knife... Nell herself felt suddenly very cold. And she knew what to do, what she wanted to do, _needed_ to do. Carefully, she walked around and slipped into the other side of the bed. Callen stirred, and part of her wanted him to wake, the other to stay asleep. He seemed to remain unconscious, but grew restless, his arms and legs slowly flexing and releasing, the precursor to outright thrashing. Lying on her side, she studied his face, the frown lines deeply furrowed on his forehead and around his grimacing mouth. Tentatively, she reached a hand out, trying to remember where the worst of his injuries lied (like she'd ever forget), and then settled on placing her hand lightly over his chest, just to the left of his sternum, feeling his heart beating strong beneath her palm, and sighing with relief as he instantly seemed to calm, the tension in his face and body easing away. He twitched and groaned lightly, but she didn't pull away, instead she snuggled in close to his side and gently stroked his face with her other hand. His expression softened even further until it was almost one of peaceful contentment.

She wanted to lay her head on his shoulder, his likely still very sore shoulder... It had been so badly dislocated, grotesquely twisted about as he hung there, his arms trussed above his head, his unconscious weight tugging at the torn connective tissue in his left shoulder. The sight of him, naked, bloody, bruised and mangled like that... Nell was still amazed she hadn't vomited on the spot. She shouldn't have insisted upon being there when they recovered him. She should've just figured out where he was being held, sent in the troops, and paced a trench into the floor. Because, oh, she had known it would be bad. It had taken her far too long to track down Braun and his henchmen. And she'd seen the cold fury in that psychos eyes, the violence contained therein. But she had forced herself to be on the recovery team, anyway, only the first in so many punishments she would put herself through, for abandoning G Callen. And now, now she would witness his continued suffering, wanting to comfort him, to be comforted by him and yet not able to achieve either, not wholly anyway. So she buried her face in the pillow beside his shoulder, breathing in the scent of an injured man, that of lingering hospital sterility and stale, feverish sweat. But something else, too... something uniquely _Callen_ in nature.

Nell closed her eyes, and somehow fell asleep.

Warmth. And contentment. Like being wrapped up in a cozy quilt, curled up next to the woodstove on a cold North Country winter night. She may have made an involuntary pleased sound as slumber receded and she woke to the mid-morning sun on her face and the wonderful sensation of... being held? But that wasn't right. There was no one who should, or could be holding her, cuddling her so, so nicely. It took her brain nearly half a minute to realize the hand splayed across her stomach, the arm wrapped about her chest, the breath heating the top of her head, the body pressed up against her back belonged to G Callen. He was fully spooning her, his legs curled up beneath hers, her bottom cradled against his- she needed to extricate herself from the situation immediately. But it did feel nice, if extremely awkward. She shifted slightly, testing the strength of the hold, which failed miserably as the arms tenseded and squeezed her more tightly. He must still be half asleep, which didn't seem in character for him at all, even in his physically compromised situation. In his half-aware state, he must be thinking she was... _oh, shit_. She placed her hand on his larger paw that was squeezing her shoulder gently and tried to pry it off... to no avail. Time to bite the bullet, then.

"Uh... Callen?"

He moaned lightly, in a contented sort of way. Not good. Not good at all.

But at least, he seemed to be feeling better, she had to admit.

"Morning, Nell," he said softly, and then she felt... he was nuzzling her hair! "You smell nice."

Had she given him more painkillers in the night and not remembered? He must be rather woozy. He certainly sounded doped up.

"Um, thanks," she said, and he finally released his hold on her slightly, but not enough for her to spring out of bed. Just enough to wiggle about so she was facing him. She checked his eyes for signs of an opiate daze, but they were as clear blue as ever. "You feeling better?"

"Downgraded to 'hit by a truck,' I think," he said, his voice hoarse. When was the last time he'd had anything to drink? The glass on the bedside table was empty. He'd been sleeping off the injuries for about -_what time was it? Jesus!- _sixteen hours straight now. He hadn't taken any of his meds or eaten since yesterday. She was a horrible nurse!

"Let me get you some water," she said, but he didn't let go of her immediately. She tried to sweeten the deal to buy her release. "And then I'll make you breakfast. Eggs? Toast? Bacon? Pancakes?"

"Yes, please." He smiled his stupid-charming grin at her. She _was_ glad he was feeling more himself... well, whatever strangely affectionate version of himself she was currently being exposed to. What had they _broken_ in the man?

She began to roll away from him to fall out of bed (her preferred method of rising in the morning), but he reached out and stopped her, with a light pained noise as he strained the damaged muscles in his arm.

"Wait... just a minute longer," he said pulling her into his warm embrace once more. She stiffened, afraid to touch him, afraid of inadvertently putting pressure on any of his many wounds, obscured from sight by the worn grey t-shirt he donned, but not even remotely out of mind.

"Um... okay," she said, hesitantly, and then because she couldn't stand it any longer, "What's up with you? Are you feeling alright?" _Foot-in-mouth, Nell. Foot-in-mouth._ "I mean, of course, you're not feeling alright. I just mean, you're acting weird?"

He gave her a much more familiar 'who me? you must be crazy' look, and then grinned at her again.

"It's been a rough week, Nell," he said. "And I'm just happy to be alive."

_Oh, ouch. Don't cry, stupid girl._

"And I'm grateful you got me out of that terrible place," he said. "Oh yeah, and rescued me from Lukas Braun's dungeon, too."

She knew he meant to make her laugh, implying that the hospitalization for nearly a week had been the worst part, but it wasn't in her. Not with the memory of his tortured body so fresh in her mind. Instead, she found herself fighting back those goddamn stupid tears that seemed to be perpetually threatening to turn torrential as of late.

"And for letting me crash in your bed," he said when she failed to respond. He expected her to play the 'it was nothing' game, the old 'we'll make fun of it to render it powerless' ploy, even though the responsibility for his suffering was the heaviest weight she'd ever born. But he wanted her to play, and so she would.

"Maybe if you had your own bed..." But she couldn't commit fully, couldn't say _then you wouldn't be sweating and probably bleeding all over mine._

"I do fine," he said. "Although, I haven't slept this much since..."

_Since you were in a medically induced coma after being shot five times by Russian mobsters. _Oh, she'd read the files on him (ones from the foster system, the various government agencies he'd worked for, even some of Hetty's personal records). She knew about him, _all_ about him. And she could imagine him playfully trying to shrug off the should've-been-lethal drive-by shooting whilst still hooked up to tubes and medical monitors, pale and gaunt and not at all his vibrant self, but merrily joking with Sam Hanna like he was trying to do with her now.

"I'm sorry," she said, finally snapping, and feeling the tears breach the dam she'd been shoring up every minute of every day since she'd left him alone in the desert with psychopaths. "This is all my fault."

"Hey, hey, hey." His hands weren't quite as rough as she'd expected them to be with all the fighting and gunplay he did. Rather, they were firm but soft against her skin as he cupped her face, a smoothly calloused thumb wiping the tears from her cheek. "It's not your fault, Nell."

"You gave yourself up for m-e." Her voice broke on a sob. How embarrassing! Especially since she couldn't turn away, couldn't bury her face in a pillow and cry like the hysterical girl she apparently was. He shouldn't have to comfort her. It was _her_ responsibility to ease _his _pain.

"They wouldn't have taken you in the first place if it wasn't for me. So don't go playing the blame game, because I'll win."

"But I should've been more careful... I..."

He pulled her into a hug, and it felt too damn nice for her to dwell on how strange it was to encounter this softer side of the generally emotionally reserved man (at least when it came to affection). Then he shushed her like a small child, rubbing her back gently when she relented and cuddled into him, burying her face against his shoulder. He smelled of the same slightly off-putting mixture of sterile hospital and stale sweat. And beneath, there was just a hint of what must be the natural musk of his body, not so sharp as much as _earthy_. Either way, it distracted her from her juvenile distress, and she crinkled her nose, chuckling quietly as she recalled how he'd greeted her earlier, how she couldn't very well return the compliment. But she also remembered how he tried to use humor to lighten the mood.

Tentatively, Nell placed her palms flat against his chest, hoping she wasn't exacerbating any sore spots as she pushed him away, saying, "No offense, Callen, but you stink."

He laughed, rolled onto his back, groaned -doubtless due to his bruised ribs, and Nell was finally free to extricate herself from her bed full of injured, oddly affectionate federal agent.

"Feel free to use the bathroom to wash up," she said. "I'll start breakfast... Bacon, eggs, toast good enough? Or I think I mentioned pancakes, too... "

"Nell, you don't have to make me-"

"Yes, I do." Perhaps a firmer tone than she had intended, for he gave her that half-surprised, half-amused look he tended to display when she put on her 'Hetty-pants' (she'd settled upon for lack of a better term) and got all commanding and stern with the agents whom she usually took orders from. "I'm the one who signed you out of the hospital. So I'm the one responsible for your well-being. And you need to eat."

And with that she turned and marched out of her bedroom, well, however much 'marching' could be done in bare feet, anyway. She listened hard as she slowly made her way down the hall to the kitchen, sighing a little bit in relief when she heard the ticking of the water in the pipes, indicating Callen had opted to follow her suggestion rather than come after her. This morning's interaction with the man was a little too abnormal for her to handle. She thought of him as a friend, was pretty certain that the feeling was mutual. They'd bonded over a love of books, shared lunches on a semi-regular basis, but he'd never even hugged her before, let alone displayed any sort of physical intimacy with his friends.

Nell attempted to push every worry out of her mind and focused on breakfast. What did she need? Bacon would take longer, so start there. Frying pan, turn the burner on, take the package of meat out of the fridge and then the worst part. It didn't normally bother her but... but...

She carefully peeled open the vacuum-sealed plastic, and then worried the edge of a piece of bacon until she was able to pinch it between her finger and thumb. Pulling slowly, she watched the machine-cut layer of meat peel away from the one beneath it, the fat sticking slightly, resisting, like a strip of flesh being torn away from a man's torso. Her stomach heaved and the bile rose up, burning her throat. Abandoning her task, she rushed over to the sink and leaned over the basin, spitting out the stomach acid that had flooded her mouth. Really, she had been functioning on borrowed time. Vomiting was inevitable after what she'd seen and it'd been a miracle she hadn't done so earlier. She stood there for a minute, bent over with her cheek pressed to the cool metal of the stainless steel sink, gasping, waiting to see if her stomach had anything more to say about the thought of Lukas Braun using a rusty little kitchen knife to cut and flay strips of skin off G Callen's torso. The agent had been so coated in blood, she wouldn't have known the specific torture that'd been applied, if it wasn't for the random piles of skin lying in heaps upon the cracked cement floor, like wet paper... only oozing partially congealed pools of blood. Her stomach heaved again, but she hadn't eaten in over twelve hours, so there hadn't been much more than the watery acid that had been regurgitated into the drain, and now it was nothing more than an unproductive spasm. She ran the faucet, making sure all the evidence of her being sick was washed away, and then rinsed her mouth thoroughly.

Nell straightened, glanced out of the corner of her eye at the open package of bacon lying on the counter a few feet to her left, like she were a wary herbivore feeling out a potential predator. But it was just bacon. Processed meat. Cleanly packaged. So far removed from any association with a living being. It wasn't bloody. It didn't even smell of blood. It was bacon. Once she put it in the pan and fried it up, it would simply be a crispy, delicious food item... especially if drowned in maple syrup. She focused on the memory of syrup-coated bacon, and warily approached the open packet of meat. One slice was lying where she'd abandoned it like a limp curly ribbon, still partially adhered to the slab. She swallowed hard, ripped it away and threw it in the hot pan where the fat instantly began to sizzle.

See. Nothing to it...

The bacon was done, and she'd set to scrambling the eggs when Callen appeared in the kitchen, startling her by saying her name. She turned to find him barefooted, sporting only a pair of jeans and several white bandages running vertically on his naked chest. He was stone-faced, sort of even grimacing when he asked her for help with his back. Did he think it some sort of failing on his part, a weakness, that he couldn't bandage the wounds on his own back? Nobody could do such a thing, stupid stubborn man, never wanting to ask anyone for help, even when he needed it most, afraid it might make him look helpless.

"Sit down," she ordered, turning the heat down on the eggs, just enough to keep them warm but hopefully not burn them. When she turned back around, somewhat to her surprise, she found that Callen had obeyed her. He'd set the supplies the hospital had given them down on the table, neatly laid out, obviously knowing Nell's fastidious nature.

Okay. She could do this. The raw bacon may have gotten the better of her, but she would not break down in front of G Callen. He shouldn't have to deal with her emotional instability, not when he'd already suffered enough of a trial because of her.

Nell steeled her stomach and then forced herself to look at the man's yet fresh wounds.

The surgeons had done a pretty nice job. The patchwork of the injured agent's back only looked vaguely Frankenstein-like. The stitching was neat, tiny. It would scar, of course. The skin would never look completely natural, but she didn't think it would be a thick grotesque mass of scar tissue in the end. It wasn't even so bad after only a couple of days. Nothing oozing or looking infected. It was clean, clinically so, and Nell wouldn't let him down. She'd make sure it stayed that way. She put on a pair of latex gloves, delicately coated the wounds with antibiotic ointment, opened the sealed, sterile bandages and covered the discolored skin and neat rows of stitching.

Carefully, with nervous fingers, she smoothed the fresh adhesive tape down, pressing gently to adhere the glue to Callen's naked skin, hoping she hadn't misaligned the bandage and stuck the tape to the raw, sensitive tissues. She pushed the anxiety away and concentrated on tending to the next swath of discolored skin graft, trying -and failing- not to think about where the donor flesh came from... there had been too much to be replaced from somewhere else on the man's disfigured body. And how did that ever make sense, anyway? Taking skin from one place on the body to cover somewhere else. If it was so vital to the person's survival, then didn't they need the skin where it was? She supposed it helped, if it was just little bits to repair cosmetic damage to the face and such. But long strips of soft human hide torn away like a banana peel... She tried to consider the technical rather than the gruesome aspects. Blood type match, obviously. Would that be enough for skin to take? Or was it like the more vital internal organs? Surely, it wasn't on par with bone marrow, needing a specific genetic match?

There. Just one more bandage to go, the series of parallel lacerations on his shoulder, deep enough to require more of the rows of neat stitching, but seeming to already have begun healing, turning a fresh baby-skin pink on the outer edges.

"All set," she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. None of the gruesome evidence was left visible. Just the remnants of his old wounds marring his skin, in a way that she found more intriguing than repulsive. He was scarred because he was a survivor, a fighter, a protector. And he'd done all of those things for her not seven days ago.

"Thanks, Nell." He started to pull on a fresh t-shirt, but stopped when it bunched up over his shoulders, a wince on his face.

"Here," she said, rushing to help him by finding the hem and tugging it loose to be pulled easily down over his back.

"Thank you," he said, refusing to make direct eye contact with her. Likely because he was embarrassed, feeling like an invalid. But she didn't think of him that way, at all. Didn't he know that he was the person she respected most in the world (well, besides maybe Hetty)? That she would never see him as anything but the strong individual he was? Surely, she didn't have to tell him, for that was a confession that would discomfit the both of them, him for being praised and admired, her for possessing the sort of hero-worship usually exhibited by children under the age of ten.

She settled upon saying 'You're very welcome' and turned her attention back to the half-prepared breakfast.

He thanked her yet again when she placed a plate heaped with bacon and eggs and buttered toast before him, adding a tall glass of orange juice (she knew he liked his coffee, but in his current condition, Nell thought perhaps it would just make him far too edgy and frustrated with his debilitated state). They ate quietly for a while, sitting at the small table in her kitchen, physically very close but mentally a million miles away from each other, until finally Callen broke the silence.

"I really appreciate all of this, Nell..."

_Oh, do you? I'm not so sure. _

"...But I think it's best if I head home after I help you clean up breakfast."

"Callen, you're not okay to be on your own yet." The thought of him in pain, _alone_... her stomach was twisted in a tight knot. She put her fork down. She was no longer hungry.

"I'm fine, Nell," he said. "I'm mobile. I don't need the heavier pain killers anymore. I can take care of myself."

"But who's..." She battled the images that came flooding her mind, of the new scars his body would now sport. "Who's going to change the bandages on your back?"

"I'll figure it out." She'd known the man long enough now to see the signs, to witness it in the hardening of his expression, the slow withdrawal of his emotional self until there was only the smallest hint of his personality glimmering in his blue eyes. Yup, G Callen was about to go all 'lone wolf' on her... Normally, she didn't care when the older agent did his angsty hermit thing. But this time, it was all her fault. And she had serious doubts as to his stability, mentally and physically, especially considering how he'd gone from bizarrely cuddly upon waking to hard as stone in a little over an hour. She was afraid that in this case, being alone wouldn't aide his recuperation, but rather impede his healing. He needed someone.

"What about your girlfriend?" She asked.

He gave her a puzzled look. And he wasn't facetiously implying he had so many women he couldn't keep track. No, Nell could tell he was genuinely caught off guard by her use of the term, that he didn't think he possessed such a person in his life.

"Joelle?"

"Yeah, I guess that's what she is." His tone was revelatory, as if he hadn't thought of the woman in precisely that context before. And then his expression turned, hardened. "But she doesn't know..."

Nell watched him as he faced the somewhat unpleasant truth.

"She doesn't know who I am," he said.

"Yes, she does," Nell insisted, desperate to ease this new pain her friend was suffering, that she'd dredged up, wanting him to find the comfort he obviously needed but didn't want from Nell herself. "She knows you have a wicked sense of humor, that you like to drink beer and watch Patriots games -even though they suck-" He smiled at her. "And that you have the bluest eyes she's ever seen."

Those blue eyes widened at her, but he didn't say anything about the statement that revealed something she didn't even know she'd felt herself.

"It doesn't matter that she doesn't know what you do every day," she said, not believing a word of it, but adamantly arguing the point on behalf of the man who deserved some happiness in his life. "It doesn't matter that she doesn't know how many people you save, how much danger you put yourself in, that you're willing to sacrifice _everything_ for a friend. She doesn't need to know the reason you have trust issues is because your family was cruelly taken from you over a insane gypsy blood feud and you were passed around from home to home, government institution to government institution, agency to agency, that the only one who's ever _kept_ you is a mysterious old spy named Henrietta Lange. Joelle doesn't need to know the _why_ to see your pain, and ease it."

Callen simply stared at her, studied her intently, the surprise only slowly dissipating from his face as she argued the point she didn't even believe in with the vehemence of a lawyer before the Supreme Court.

"Have you called her?"

He shook his head, but surely it couldn't be because she'd shamed him silent with her admonitory tone?

"If she's remotely as nice as Sam says, then she's probably extremely worried about you by now." _I would be._ Unless, maybe his relationship with the woman wasn't that serious? Maybe it was nothing to go a week without hearing from one another? But still, he couldn't be left to his own devices, not in the compromised state he was in. Someone had to be there to keep an eye on the battered agent. "You should call her."

"I can't," he said, staring fixedly at her kitchen wall. She didn't consider it a particularly interesting feature of her apartment, being eggshell white and quite barren at his current eye level. The clock was several feet above where his gaze currently resided.

She hated to prod, especially knowing how very private a man he was, but _damn him_, he was rejecting any further help from her person, so she needed to find him a different source.

"Why not?"

His blue gaze finally slid to her face.

"Because I can't explain away my injuries," he said. "And even if I had a good excuse, it would raise all sorts of other questions... questions with answers I'm not cleared to give her."

"Not cleared or _not willing _to give?"

Oh, boy. She'd definitely gone to far. He grimaced, sighed.

"Can you please just take me home or call me a cab?"

"Okay. I'll take you home," Nell said. The guilt that had been twisting up her stomach and knotting the muscles in her neck and back seemed twice as heavy than it had the previous night. Why was she such a horrible friend? And why had Callen thought her life would be worth the sacrifice of his own?

It clearly wasn't.

* * *

**A/N: Poor Nell… will she feel guilty forever? Will Callen let her, or anyone else (Joelle), in? Will Nell be able to convince him to do so?**

***EDITED to reflect characterization change later... backstory of Nell and Callen being friends (just a little more than the canon gives) before the Lukas Braun incident.***


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: So I honestly thought the writers might just forget about Joelle, since they aren't very good at personal-life consistency with their characters, but judging by the teasers floating about, they're bringing her back (vomit… I really dislike her, even though we've only had about two minutes of her… it's the whole concept of her, I guess). Therefore, I think this is an AU for season 6... (I am about three episodes behind, so please no spoilers!)**

* * *

Silence had reigned on the ride over to Callen's place. And it wasn't of the pleasant variety. When worked up, the older agent could be quite expressive, verbally facetious or downright mercenary with his words, but on the whole he was a reticent sort of man. And unfortunately capable of expressing his mood without a single word. The tension was so thick, Nell felt her muscles knot up in response, her molars grinding into one another and her fingers aching from gripping the steering wheel with unnecessary force. She tried to shove out the other thoughts as she focused on driving, but that never worked. Sometimes, she loved her over-active brain. Most of the time, it was more burden than boon.

She couldn't help recounting everything, every action, every touch, every word that had passed between Callen and her that morning. Over. And over. And over. And... All the while, the cause of all her stupid distress, and probably a nascent ulcer if she wasn't careful, was sitting sulkily in the passenger seat.

And to think, on different occasions she'd actually thought broody G Callen was sort of, well, _hot_. All _Mr. Rochester _Gothic melancholy and temper, only actually quite handsome, unlike the fictional character, and she'd better stop reading romance novels. In the real world, the heroes were just human people, capable of performing noble acts of self-sacrifice, but then pushing you away, shutting you out... choosing to suffer alone because apparently you weren't fucking worth it... breaking your heart.

Nell spied at him out of the corner of her eye, and then more openly studied his silent figure with quick glances. He was leaning towards the window, his eyes closed, his mouth firmly set in a grimace. And with that observation, she no longer felt that tension in the small space smothering her. Any perceived malice was entirely the conjuring of her own guilty conscience. The man wasn't mad at her. He was exhausted, likely even in pain, since the idiot had refused to take a dose of codeine with his breakfast. At least he knew better than to have refused the antibiotics.

There was a vehicle parked in the driveway, an unfamiliar silver Rav-4, which made Nell frown and slowly pass by Callen's supposedly vacant home. She'd learned her lesson all too well about being cautious, that they were in constant danger because of their work, because of who they were, who they pissed off.

Callen made a displeased noise, too faint to be called a groan.

"What?" Nell asked, looking over at him. "Are you okay?"

He sighed loudly.

"Are you a witch, Nell Jones?" he asked, his voice still weak. He grunted as he pushed himself up straight in his seat.

"What?"

"Because you chewed me out over breakfast about not calling Joelle," he said. "And here she is."

"Oh," Nell said, as she did a u-turn in the street and headed back towards the house.

"Yeah." Now he was beginning to sound more awake. Awake and cranky. "And all I wanted to do was go back to bed."

"So you _do_ have a bed?" Nell tried to deflect the older agent's bad mood with teasing. It didn't work. He gave her a stony look.

"No."

"Then why...?"

"It's just an expression."

_Well, okay, Mr. Snappy._

Nell pulled in behind what apparently was Callen's gorgeous (of course) girlfriend's car, and cut the engine. The woman turned towards the sound of the mini cooper pulling up. She'd been standing at the front door, phone in hand, likely trying to get a hold of the man now struggling to undo his seatbelt and climb out of the small vehicle. Again, Nell was neglecting her nursing duties. She hopped out of the car as quickly as possible and ran around to the passenger side in time to hastily place a supportive arm around Callen's waist. Whatever energy he'd had upon waking that morning had definitely dissipated. It was disconcerting, because Nell knew there was no way he'd lean on her so heavily (or at all) unless it was absolutely necessary. As in, his legs wouldn't support him on their own. She sidled up snug to his side, gently pulling his arm to drape over her shoulder, forcing him to use the strength of her smaller body to support him. God, how was he so heavy? He wasn't _that_ large of a man. Just significantly larger than her apparently scrawny little self. Well, it could be worse... Sam Hanna would've flattened her if she'd ever tried to support the ex-seal's weight like this.

Nell looked up into Callen's face. His eyes were closed and he was breathing with determinedly slow inhalations and exhalations.

"You okay?" Nell whispered.

He nodded... very... slowly. "Just got up too quickly. Head rush."

Nell would've argued that he'd been moving at a turtle's pace, and if he was feeling light-headed or overwhelmed from the pain, then he should take some more painkillers as soon as they got inside and then lie down... But she decided to stifle the Mother Hen rant, especially since the woman on the porch was finally approaching them with determined speed, seeming to have recovered from the initial shock of seeing them. Well, _him_, Nell supposed. The _awful_ state of the normally vital man... it was a shock even to Nell who had seen him roughed up before.

"Oh my god!" Joelle exclaimed stopping just short of the pair of struggling NCIS agents... well, she didn't know they were feds. So what did this look like to the woman, Nell wondered, as the her pretty face contorted with confusion and alarm. "What happened?! I called Sam when I hadn't heard from you and he said you'd been in an accident and that you were just released from the hospital yesterday. Are you okay?"

The sigh that Callen tactfully stifled did not go entirely undetected by Nell, who could feel the expansion and contraction of his lungs through the twitchy movement of his taxed muscles.

"He'll make a full recovery," Nell said, trying to give Joelle an amiable smile. The taller woman looked at her as if she'd just appeared suddenly out of nowhere.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Have we met?" Joelle asked, not unkindly. But obviously, they hadn't met. Anyone who knew G Callen at all, knew he only had a few friends, and they were all his coworkers. But it was more polite then saying 'who the hell are you', Nell supposed.

"She's Nell," Callen said obviating the need for the younger agent to introduce herself. Joelle looked bewilderedly at her 'boyfriend', seeming to say that the little ginger bitch's name was no explanation at all. Nell had to admit, the lady had a point.

"I...uh..." Nell shifted, pretended that the burden of Callen's weight had caused her hesitation, not her inability to think of a likely cover. What story was the agent using with this woman?

"I work with Callen." She settled on the easiest, lamest explanation, and then held a silent argument with the man.

'What the hell?' his blue eyes asked.

'What the hell yourself!' she glared back. 'Like you did any better with 'She's Nell'? And why am I the one responsible for making excuses to _your_ girlfriend, anyway?'

His eyes widened... 'Really?, Nell?'

Oh, right, the severe pain...

"Should we maybe get him inside?" Joelle interrupted the most bizarre argument Nell had ever participated in.

"Yes," Nell and Callen said in unison, aloud.

The two women helped the injured man through the door, and hesitated, realizing that each of the other had not been in the house before and neither knew where to go next. Callen himself instructed them to lead him down the hall and into a small room that was obviously not the home's master bedroom. Nell had not been surprised by the 'abandoned home' decorating scheme, and recognized that the sparse little room was his chosen space by the bed roll sitting in the corner. She carefully extricated herself from supporting part of his weight to lay out his meager bedding, exchanging only a brief glance with Joelle, who seemed puzzled, if not outright shocked by the state of her lover's home., before they eased the injured man down.

Callen had his eyes closed, was breathing slowly, determinedly, obviously combating the pain. Meds. They needed to get him some painkillers. His things were still in the car.

"C'mon," she ordered Joelle, and the older woman followed her obediently through the house and out to the car. Nell Jones may not look formidable, but she'd learned from the best that physical stature did not matter. That the smallest of women could demand the most respect and attention of any person on the face of the earth. Nell had learned Henrietta Lange's lessons well. And it was practically second nature for her to fall into practical, 'getting business done' mode. She handed Joelle the 'go bag' Callen always kept at the OSP and she had snagged before checking him out of the hospital, and took up the bag of care items she'd packed up herself, wordlessly carrying them back into the house and setting to work in the kitchen.

First, she began to check the cupboards, until she found the one that contained Callen's meager supply of dishes, and took out one of the glasses, filling it with water from the tap. Then she fished out the bag of medical supplies from the reusable shopping bag full of 'sick day' kit. She placed this on the small round kitchen table, impressed that he possessed the set of table and two chairs, however simple, and began to lay out the medications, bandages and other gear. Finding the pain killers, she shook two out and handed them to Joelle with the glass of water.

"'Every six hours as needed," Nell said. "They'll make him groggy. Don't let him drive or anything."

"Um... okay," Joelle said, looking at Nell as if she were a surprisingly forceful talking doll. Realizing she'd been given a task and would receive no further information or explanation until she completed it, the woman disappeared down the hall to give the patient his medication.

Nell continued with her chores, wanting to get out of the awkward situation but not willing to leave until she was certain everything was settled. So she checked the fridge, and just as she'd suspected, it was empty. Well, there were a couple bottles of beer and a white paper box of some mysterious take-out derision, but that hardly counted as food. Nell took out the two quart-sized containers that formerly contained wanton soup but now were filled with her mother's recipe for homemade chicken noodle, and placed them in the fridge. On the counter she set the loaf of wheat bread and container of chocolate chip cookies she'd anxiety-baked the previous day while Callen was sleeping off the trauma.

She turned around to find Joelle staring at her once more, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed.

_Uh-oh._

"So, you work with Callen?" the woman asked.

"Uh, yeah," Nell said. She tried her patented 'friendly, harmless girl' smile.

"In 'securities'?" _Not buying it, Joelle?_

"Yup. They need someone around the office to keep them organized," Nell said with a conspiratorial 'aren't men silly' tone. "You know, make sure they're fed, their fingernails are clean and the accounts balance out."

Finally, the older woman's posture softened, and she gave Nell a noncommittal smile. Right. Nothing threatening here. Just the company's Girl Friday, doing what she does, basically being servant to all the higher-ups.

"Do you know what happened to him?" Joelle asked, now that 'us girls are on the same side.' Nell froze.

"I think I better leave that story for him to tell," she said, having the feeling that 'he was horribly tortured after giving himself up to save me' wouldn't go over well.

"Do you think you can stay, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid and pull his stitches out or something?" Nell asked.

"Yes, of course," Joelle said, her overwhelmed look turning into a business-like one.

"Great," Nell said, putting on a great big liar's smile, which she wasn't sure why it was necessary to fake. It would be a good thing, getting away from the man who filled her with feelings of guilt and frustration. The thought of him, lying hurting on the floor in his small room in his _empty_ house... but he had Joelle... Still, there was that tight feeling in her chest, the precursor to those awful panic attacks she used to have in college. She needed to get out of there.

"Nice to meet you," Nell said, waiting only briefly to hear the returned sentiment before she made a rapid exit, only truly breathing freely when she was halfway back to her own apartment.

This was not good. Not good at all.

* * *

**A/N: Trying not to make Joelle a cliché of everything I hate… really, really am, I swear. And I know it's awful of me, but I rather see Callen continue as the loner the canon established him as than be with anyone not Nell, or Nell-like (which is impossible, since what I like about Nell possibly being with Callen is that she knows him very well at this point in the series, and is part of his daily life, his team. Not to mention how _perfectly _their personality types would fit together).**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Been neglecting my love of writing Callen and Nell fics lately. Likely, because I was just so frustrated by the contradictory characterization of G Callen in the canon. But what affect does that have on my fanon, anyway? ;-)**

**This obviously takes place in an AU to season six, since when I started this story, we hadn't really met Joelle, and she also was still blind to who Callen really is…**

* * *

Hetty had shown some surprise upon Nell's return to work that day. But once the younger woman explained the situation, that she hadn't in fact abandoned an invalid Callen to fend for himself, the old spy had merely said that the team would be glad of her assistance in ops... and the hundred other things she did for the Office of Special Projects.

And indeed, Nell was glad to throw herself completely into the work that had become backlogged over the past week, when she'd been spending so much time at the hospital. Multi-tasking was honestly the only chance she had to prevent her mind from _dwelling_. And unfortunately, there were several lulls, when only two or three projects required her attention. And in those moments, one man crept into her head and refused to leave, settling in and taking over.

She ignored him, the best she could. Because he would never _ask_ for her help, would never think he needed it anyway. So why worry so much? Besides, he had Joelle. With her hair the color of Nell's, only fuller, wavier, nicer. With her prettier face, longer legs and doubtless sweeter temperament. And the woman had to be capable of taking care of the recovering agent. She was a teacher of small children, after all. So, if anyone had the patience to deal with an agitated G Callen who was cranky as hell when he felt helpless, it would be her.

At least, that's what Nell told herself every time she pictured Callen laying on the floor with just the thin bedroll between him and the hardwood, pain throbbing in his days-old stitched up wounds, unable to get comfortable, twitching and moaning when he did finally succumb to sleep.

No. He was fine. And she was about three dozen operations' worth of requisition forms behind. And then a marine was found dead in the alley behind a strip club. She and Eric collated all the preliminary data and the team was called up for the initial briefing on the case.

Sam was in the middle of asking whether the LAPD had any leads when Nell felt her cell phone buzz in her skirt pocket. She ignored it, informing the team that the local LEOs were calling it a random act of violence, or in other words, they had no idea. They divided up the initial case interviews to be performed, and made to disperse.

"You wanna come with, Nell?" Sam asked, as Kensi and Deeks headed out to talk to the family of the deceased. The big man didn't really need her, even if it was their standard operating procedure to work with a partner. And she knew it was because he felt sympathetic toward her, that it was obvious to everyone the guilt she carried around for what had happened to Callen. It was sweet that Sam was trying to cheer her up, knowing how she'd always been gunning for more field experience. But she'd been rather field-shy since...

Nell looked to Hetty for guidance, who scrutinized the young woman in that unreadable way of hers, before turning to Sam.

"No, Mr. Hanna," Hetty said. "I think Nell had better sit this one out. She has much too much paperwork to take care of, before the week is out."

Sam nodded to both women, and Nell gave him a smile of gratitude before he headed out on his chosen assignment. He was a good guy. Callen was lucky to have him as a best friend.

Her phone buzzed again, and with a look toward her boss for permission, Nell pulled it out of her pocket. And her stomach immediately turned into a knot as heavy as lead.

_G Callen._

"What's wrong?" She failed entirely to marshal her worry as she answered the call, assuming the worst.

/Nell? It's Joelle./

Oh, shit. He wasn't even capable of using his phone. The panic twisted her guts even tighter.

/I didn't know who else to call./

Oh, god. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.

/He's refusing to let me take him to the hospital./

He's alive, at least. And being stubborn by the sounds of it.

"How bad is it?" Nell finally managed to calm herself enough to speak in a somewhat collected manner. "Did he pull some of his stitches?"

/I don't think so./

_Did you think about fucking checking, maybe?! _Wow. Nell needed to get a hold of her internal temper.

"Then what's the problem?" she asked, her patience growing extremely thin in her distressed state.

/He's running a bad fever./

Infection. Damn it.

Nell didn't even look to Hetty for permission.

"I'll be right over," she said, ending the call and collecting her things with a shaking hand.

"Please keep us apprised of Mr. Callen's condition," Hetty called after the Nell as she practically ran out of ops.

...

The deep lines of worry on Joelle's face made the younger woman instantly release the anger she'd been stewing in as she drove the twenty minutes over to Callen's house, seething at his girlfriend for her incompetence in being able to deal with the obstinate man, her apparent inability to take care of him.

"Is he still running a fever?" Nell asked, getting right down to business as soon as she walked through the door. "Did you give him anything?"

"I wasn't sure if it was safe to give him a fever reducer with his other medications."

Nell nodded. It was a valid point. But call the doctor or something. Why call Nell? Not that the control freak in her wasn't grateful to not find out sometime later how sick her former patient had become. The older red head seemed to be able to read Nell's thoughts on her face. Was she really so bad at schooling her emotions?

"He's been asking for you," Joelle said, looking quietly uncomfortable with the revelation.

Nell didn't know how to take such news. She simply nodded and made her way to Callen's room, finding him lying in an unsettled fever dream on the floor. Perspiration was beaded on his face and bare arms. She touched his forehead lightly as he twitched in his half-conscious state. He was burning up quite badly.

"Cold washcloth?" Nell more ordered than requested of Joelle, who disappeared down the hall.

"This is all my fault," Nell said, watching the man who had willingly sacrificed himself for her in his tormented state. He was mumbling, crying out clearly once in a while. Her name...

_'Nell. Give me Nell. No. No.'_

The intelligence analyst could see why Joelle thought he was asking for her, and seemed to be refusing to go to the hospital. But they weren't the consciously chosen words of a coherent man. They were memories of a painful trauma.

Joelle returned with the cool washcloth, handing it off to Nell and then kneeling down beside her, watching as the younger woman pressed the damp fabric to Callen's burning face and neck.

"We need to get him to the hospital," Nell said, biting her lip so as not to cry. This was no time to indulge herself.

"I couldn't get him to come with me," Joelle said. "And then... he was asking for you."

Nell's gaze snapped from her suffering, unaware friend to his girlfriend.

"He wasn't asking for me," she said, trying to ignore the little bite of pain the fact elicited in her chest. "He's out of it, Joelle. He was just remembering..."

Oh, shit. How much did the woman know? What had he told her, about his real job, about his injury? Her eyes grew wide and then her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Remembering what?" the older woman asked, now looking at Nell with suspicion.

"It can wait," Nell said, turning back to Callen and placing a hand on his forehead. "This fever can't."

She ignored the other red-head's protest, caressing Callen's face, speaking his name softly in a futile attempt to rouse his attention. She shook him by the shoulders firmly. Still nothing.

"Help me get him sitting up," Nell ordered, and the two women managed to shift him, Nell slipping her body behind his to prop him up against her. Joelle was holding his hand, squeezing it.

"Don't make me call an ambulance, Callen." Nell didn't want to be the hard ass, but she knew the situation called for a firmer hand. Joelle was too soft and sweet to deal with an injured G Callen, which was why he was still lying feverish on floor of his empty home instead of tucked up in the hospital with an IV of strong antibiotics. She hefted his weight a little to the side, so that she could examine his face. His eyes tried to focus on her but ultimately closed once more.

Nell slapped his cheek with the back of her hand, making Joelle gasp in shock.

Callen blinked at her, his blue eyes now wide awake.

"C'mon, G," she said, trying to imitate Sam Hanna's Navy-Seal-Giving-Orders tone. "On your feet."

Wrapping her arms around his chest she pulled and shoved at him while he tried to stand until he finally managed to gain his feet, if weakly, and leaning heavily on the two women who had moved to support him on either side.

It took a solid 15 minutes but they managed to load him into the back seat of Joelle's SUV. Nell's mini was not conducive to easy conveyance of sick and surly federal agents. Joelle drove to the hospital while Nell cradled the feverish man in her lap.

He was obviously delirious, and it was highly disconcerting. He was shivering, his whole body trembling in her arms, and he was _staring_ up at her. God, she would've preferred that he'd remained mostly unconscious rather than the way he was gazing at her in a remote yet entirely focused way. He reached an uncertain, uncoordinated hand up towards her face, his fingers swiping her chin and nose before he managed to finally entwine them in the loose fall of her hair, which seemed to have been his goal. He played with her straight, fine auburn locks, the back of his hand brushing against her cheek as he did so.

She didn't stop him. How could she?

"We're going to get you to the hospital. They'll give you something for this fever," Nell said. "You'll be feeling better soon. And then you'll be able to go back home and Joelle will take good care of you."

Joelle glanced at them in her rearview mirror upon hearing her name. She smiled wanly at Nell, before refocusing her attention on her driving. They'd be at the hospital in another couple of minutes.

And Nell didn't know how she was going let go of Callen.

* * *

**A/N: When will Nell realize she's the only one who can take care of G Callen? When will she finally let go of her guilt?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Apparently I still have some unresolved issues with the **_**NCIS: LA **_**writers… as some of you who made the mistake of leaving me a friendly note discovered (sorry, by the way, it happens from my trying to keep my ranting out of the fics… mostly). I am trying to portray Joelle in the sense the canon treats her, sweet and lovely, and somehow what Callen thinks he wants…**

* * *

"Take me home, Nell."

It was something he would never have said had he still not been delirious, coming down from fever, loaded up with medication. The amount of wistful, pathetic desire in his voice... it was a tone G Callen would rather be caught dead than heard speaking. But he was utterly exhausted and had been through hell and back.

"If you keep getting better like you are, they'll release you tomorrow," Nell said.

She didn't comment on the fact, the pure as day fact to her, that he wanted her to take him home, to _her_ home. But she wouldn't. She wouldn't get in the way anymore. Part of her would want to just bring him back to his house, because then she could drop in whenever to check on him, to make sure Joelle was taking good care of him. But that was selfish. He needed somewhere more comfortable to recover. So she would talk it over with Joelle, and either Nell would check him out of the hospital and bring him to the other woman's place, or Joelle herself would fetch him tomorrow.

Because Nell Jones could not get in the way anymore. Her nature was to interfere, to take care of those around her, of those who were important to her. But that wasn't her role. She realized this as she'd sat in the hospital waiting room, filling out the forms to check G Callen back in, watching Joelle sit with the suffering man, with her arms around him, trying to comfort him.

No, Nell now knew her place, who she was, who she was meant to be. Oh, she'd never been blind to it. There was a reason Henrietta Lange chose her above all the other geniuses to be the Office of Special Project's intelligence analyst, specifically to work with this team. And it was the one thing that set her apart, that Nell had originally thought would be a detriment to her career goals, to being an undercover field agent. Her psychological evaluations always revealed her compassionate nature, her emotionality. Whereas others of her intelligence level tended to be cold and austere, the perfect candidates for work where a person had to remain detached, distant, Nell Jones had a soft heart. She was a nurturer by nature. She thought it was a death sentence for her aspirations.

And so she'd been ecstatic when she'd been chosen for the OSP assignment, given a chance she'd feared she'd never have, to work with a team that made a difference (one more tangible than running analyses from a cubicle for the CIA and the like, which had looked to be her fate previously), to possibly become a field agent herself.

It didn't take her long to realize why Hetty had picked her, and now she could no longer deny it. The elderly spy was a chess player, she saw so many moves ahead it would destroy an average person's brain. And she planned. She saw that there would be an end game. Some day they would lose Hetty, either to retirement or... one day she would be gone. And the older woman wanted to ensure there was someone to look after her team, after her _family _the way she had. Not with professional concern, as Granger did, but who loved them, would care for them, _protect_ them.

Loyalty was something Nell developed quickly, and with her team mates, it was thicker than that of blood. Hetty had done her job, alright. Nell would do anything, _anything_ for any one of them. And that was to be her role, to be the caretaker of them. But, and this was something she'd only just realized, she couldn't get too close. She could love them with all of her heart, but she couldn't be _involved _with them. Hetty had it easier, since they were like her children. Did the old woman realize how much more trying it was to a young woman to take on the role of Mother Hen? Yes, Nell was a natural to it, to caring for others. But the relationship that was required, one of deep love but not of physical emotion, was more difficult for a woman -who admittedly was still mostly a girl- to acquire and maintain. Because the team of agents weren't the age her children would be if she had any. It was more difficult to keep your head straight when the agent who needed your help was older than you, skilled, capable, loyal, strong and brave, when he was a hero in your eyes.

And that's what it was. G Callen was a hero in the classic 'epic' sense, tortured, troubled, capable of incredible feats. And Nell, she wasn't the princess. She wasn't the damsel in distress, or the steadfast, goodly woman the hero came home to. No, she was the old woman. The wise woman, the vestal virgin, the oracle. She set the tasks for her heroes, guided them along the way, did everything in her power to return them safely home. And she did it from afar. It was not residing in her arms that they dreamed of while fighting the monsters. It was her doing that sent them into the mouths of the beasts.

Distance was what was required.

"Well, I'd better get back to work," Nell said, an announcement for Joelle as much as for Callen, whom unfortunately clung to her wrist a moment too long as she rose to leave, making it apparent that he didn't want her to go. He hastily released her when she gave him a warning look and then indicated Joelle standing awkwardly beside her.

Nell beat a hasty retreat.

But apparently, not hasty enough, for she heard someone call out her name, heard the quick steps of clicking heels chasing her down, identified and quelled the instinct to fall into a defensive mode. For there really was only one person it _could_ be. And even knowing who it was who placed a hand on her shoulder, perhaps because she _did_ know who it was, Nell entertained the notion of taking hold of the arm and flipping the person off her onto the hard hospital floor.

"What is it, Joelle?" Nell tried not to be snippy, and failed horribly.

"That's what I'd like to know." Apparently the generally sweet woman had reached the end of her rope, as well. "What exactly is going on?"

"Going on?" Nell feigned confusion... miserably.

"Yes. What sort of accident requires Callen to have his back and chest covered in bandages? Why is his house so empty? Why weren't you shocked to find it that way? Who _are_ you? Who are you to him that... that he looks at you like that?"

Nell started. The older woman had clearly gotten things wrong. G Callen did not look at her in any _notable_ way, more than one friend looked to another, anyway. Okay, perhaps more than that, when they were part of a team that did what they did, there was more bond between them than regular, everyday friends, for certain.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Nell said flatly.

Joelle put her face in her hands and began to cry, looking as if she were about to crumple up, collapse entirely to the floor in a sobbing heap. Nell firmly took her arm and walked her the remaining ten yards to the lobby, sitting her in a chair and taking the one beside her.

The woman Nell's friend loved looked up at her, her eyes red and her face streaked with tears. Nell felt true pity for her, realizing how pissed off and stupid she would feel if she were in Joelle's shoes, knowing something else was going on around her but getting no answers from anyone, including the man she thought she loved.

"It's okay," Nell said, softly stroking her arm. "Callen will be fine."

"I know he will," Joelle said. "But things are not going to be fine. He's lying to me. I know he is. I just don't know why."

She locked eyes with Nell, revealing her confusion and pain to her.

"Is it because of you?"

Nell bit her lip. It wasn't her place to tell her coworker's, her _friend_'s secrets.

"It is, isn't it? Are you two... you're _together_. I didn't think he was the type to string more than one woman along at a time, but I guess I don't really know him."

Nell just stared at her with wide eyes, slightly shocked at the assumption she'd made.

"No," Nell said. "You're the only woman he's romantically involved with."

"Romantically?"

"I'm his friend," Nell said, deciding that sometimes the Oracle had to act outside of the hero's knowledge, for his own good. "He was injured saving my life."

Joelle blinked, shaking her head as she took in the news. How pissed was Callen going to be when he found out Nell had spilled everything? But the intelligence analyst couldn't see any other way around it. If his relationship with the sweet-tempered woman was to be salvaged, Nell had to straighten out the misunderstandings... The question was, would Callen want to save the relationship?

In all the years she'd known him, and it _had_ been years now, Callen had never been seriously involved with anyone. Sam and Michelle, who inarguably knew the man best had thought Joelle a good match for him. Even Hetty seemed to approve of his finding someone. And he'd been dating her for several months.

Okay, then.

"Whatever job Callen told you he did," Nell said, taking Joelle's hand and holding her gaze firmly with her own. "It was a lie."

Hurt flashed in the older woman's eyes and she nodded imperceptibly, swallowed.

"He couldn't tell you that he's actually a federal agent. It's against protocol."

"And you work with him?" Joelle asked, realization donning on her. "It must be dangerous... Something went wrong… and you were there."

Now it was Nell's turn to nod silently and fight back tears.

"That's why you've been taking care of him. You feel guilty?"

"It's all my fault!" Nell blurted out. She'd meant to stay strong, detached, but somehow the woman's sympathetic ear had coaxed all of the pain from beneath the surface. In some ways it was easier to let it out with the near-stranger than with a close friend. "I let my guard down. Some arms dealers with a vendetta took me hostage. Callen traded himself for me. And I didn't find him fast enough. I didn't stop them before..."

Joelle pulled her into an awkward (because of the chairs they were sitting in) but surprisingly comforting hug.

"I'm sorry," Nell whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Hey, it's okay. He's going to be fine. He's healing."

Joelle comforted her, soothed her like a child with a skinned knee. Maybe she could take care of Callen. Although, patience and a kind heart wouldn't be enough with that obstinate man, not as far as Nell could see. She might not be fiery or tough, but the woman wasn't completely stupid at least. Only, how had she not had questions about the man she was sleeping with? All of those scars Nell knew he had? He could play a role, charm and sweet talk flawlessly, likely hide his emotional damage. But the physical scars...

"You've seen his other scars?" Nell asked, unable to keep her mouth shut, exhausted and drained as she was. She looked up at Joelle, but made no move to escape her embrace, and neither did the older woman move to release her.

"Yes."

The blush was as apparent on Joelle's pale skin as it would've been on Nell's. Their physical similarities were a little disconcerting. Maybe if Nell had been just a little older... No. She wasn't the damsel. She wasn't the princess. But sometimes, she wished she could be...

"Didn't you ever wonder...?" Nell asked.

"Of course I did." Her tone was sharper now, but then softened. "I figured he'd tell me when he was ready."

Good answer.

Nell squirmed out of Joelle's grasp, rising to her feet and straightening her rumpled clothes.

She looked at Callen's Penelope. Odysseus could've done no better.

It was time for the oracle to return to her temple duties.

"Take care of him."

* * *

**A/N: Poor Nell thinks she has to remain apart from her team, in order to do what's best for them… Maybe Callen will realize and help change her mind?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: I had honestly meant to update this sooner, but I was trying to force this chapter to be from Nell's POV (in my head) since I aimed to make this fic entirely Nell-centric, but I knew it wouldn't work. Callen is too tight-lipped about his thoughts and feelings (especially before he's certain about them), so there was no way we could know what was really going on in his head without being with him. And the progression of this fic, the furtherance of the plot is now residing with him, since Nell has already made her decision.**

* * *

The team filtered out of Ops to pursue their assigned tasks, but G Callen lingered. Nell seemed not to notice, her eyes focused on her tablet as she blindly plopped down into her chair and slid over to her terminal. And if that wasn't blatant confirmation, Callen didn't know what was.

The young woman was avoiding him, had been avoiding him for weeks. Oh, she was the consummate professional, but there'd been no friendly chats, no genial smiles, no shared lunches (granted it had never been a regular occurrence that they ordered the same take-out and sat down for a few minutes together, but it hadn't been an uncommon one, either). He'd tried everything he knew about her (a depth of knowledge which had surprised him) to start up a conversation, but she always shut him down. Not in a rude way or anything, just with a lack of enthusiasm for topics he knew were her passions... UAVs, football, baking (something he knew little about but had actually done some googling in the desperate hope to reconnect with his friend), languages, weapons training, books... None of it had worked. And he couldn't help but feel like he'd done or said something terribly wrong. Maybe when he'd been all drugged up and delirious with pain? But surely Nell was not the type of person to hold that against him?

"How's your family back east holding up?" He asked. It was an obviously desperate bid, but he'd exhausted all other avenues. "Saw that there was quite the Nor' Easter moving in."

"They live farther North, on the Canadian border," Nell said, her gaze never wavering from the computer screen as she typed. "The coastal storms don't generally touch their area."

Well, if he couldn't even get her to chat about the fricken weather...

Callen didn't sigh, but his shoulders involuntarily slumped as he turned to leave. Why it should bother such an independent person as himself that someone didn't want to talk with him about inane topics, he didn't know. But it undeniably made his mood heavy (and admittedly a little morose) to think that Nell Jones no longer liked him.

He desperately searched his memory for any indications that he'd alienated her, pissed her off in some way. Except, it wouldn't be minor. Not with her. She had a forgiving heart, especially when it came to her team, her friends, her surrogate family. _His family_... And that was probably why it hurt him so much to be on the outs with the young woman. Deny it all he liked, but his team were important to him. They were the people who mattered most. He would kill (and had killed) to protect them. He would sacrifice (and had sacrificed) for them. He would die (but thankfully had never gotten that far yet) for them. For any of them. For _her_.

Is that why she was angry with him?

Nell Jones was a genius, and a control freak. And he'd taken the decision of her fate out of her hands. He'd forced her to accept his sacrifice. But it only made sense. It was only right. It was really no sacrifice at all. A traumatized loner, an aging agent with so much baggage a whole airline couldn't transport it... for a bright, gifted, young woman possessing both a passionate and compassionate heart, with so much potential? There was no choice. Not to mention the entire situation was because of him, anyway. Because of his past actions, because he'd made enemies. It had nothing to do with Nell Jones, except that he cared about her, and she was made to suffer for it.

Maybe it was better that she'd distanced herself from him.

Callen sunk into his chair, facing a pile of post-op paperwork, and sighed.

Deeks gave him a sympathetic look from across their workspace, in the middle of scribbling away at his own stack of paperwork and looking none-too-pleased.

But it wasn't the paperwork that was bothering Callen. It was depressing discovering one of your few friends no longer wanted to have anything to do with you...

…

It turned out to be one long, monotonous day, and although normally the proposal of going out for a drink with the rest of his team after such a day would appeal to Callen, he was in a sullen mood. So he'd refused, excused himself with having 'other plans'. Which wasn't an outright lie, since he did have other plans... plans that just happened to be sitting in his empty house alone with a copy of _Das Schloss _he'd picked up at a flea market, in a box of random novels he just couldn't resist (especially since they were in a mix of different languages). He had been planning on passing them along to Nell when he was finished, knowing her affinity for reading as a method to unwind at the end of the day. For himself, it was where he often fled during his insomniac hours, that was, when he wasn't too anxious to sit still and needed a project to occupy his hands.

"Got a hot date or something?" Deeks said, with a suggestive grin.

"Dinner with Joelle maybe?" Sam said.

Callen hadn't told him yet. Not that he was obligated to do so... But the man was his best friend, and for some stupid reason had a vested interest in his relationship with the woman. Honestly, upon deeper reflection, he wasn't sure why either Sam or Michelle thought his dating Joelle was a good idea. Yes, he probably could use a sweet-tempered woman to soften his rougher edges, but she needed to be made of some coarser stuff to do that. A marshmallow couldn't sand down a rough-cut, battered bit of slab wood. It had been fun to play a role for a while, to pretend he was the charming, affectionate boyfriend, but beyond being a good listener, making a whole lot of small talk and a little bit of love, there really wasn't anything of substance in the relationship. Not anything that would hold his attention for longer than it took for the appeal of solitude to begin singing its siren song.

Not to mention, he was in no way good for her. Being injured, forcing the burden of his care onto her, he couldn't help but discover, even as he became unreasonably snappish, that she didn't deserve to be saddled with a short-tempered, cranky jerk like himself. Also, her sweetness only grew exponentially more annoying as she tried to coddle him. As soon as he was coherent enough, he'd made her take him home. He hadn't called her since, ignored her calls. Hetty would eventually have to be informed, to keep tabs on the woman, since Joelle now knew his real line of work, who he really was... well, sort of who he really was... but none of the important things.

Wait, was that why Nell was avoiding him? Because she thought he was going to lecture her about blowing his cover with Joelle? But she must have thought it was for the best... not that he thought the young woman should be making such decisions for him... Surely, Nell didn't know that he'd parted ways with his quasi-girlfriend, didn't think that it her fault for telling the truth, and subsequently elucidating the fact that Callen had been lying to Joelle?

"G?" Sam hesitated as the others filed out, frowning down at his partner who had been drifting in and out of deep ponderings all day long. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Callen said, giving his patented 'I'm covering that I'm not really okay, and you obviously know this, but you won't call me on it, because you also know I don't want to talk about it' smile.

Sam Hanna nodded.

Sometimes, the man knew when not to push his friend too hard, and Callen was grateful for it. He needed to go home to his empty house, revel in some quiet solitude, and consider how he could fix his relationship with Nell Jones. Perhaps it was selfish and rude, but he couldn't help but think that he hadn't saved her life just to lose her in another way...

* * *

**A/N: Poor, stupid Callen… will he realize that he still has to save Nell Jones… from herself?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: This isn't very action-y, I know. It's turning into a lot of 'in-a-character's-head' narrative. But guess it's a touchy-feely sort of fic.**

* * *

Still with the silent treatment?

Callen set his jaw. He'd decided to outwait her, and he would, by god. Three hours of sitting in complete quiet, however, had begun to test his resolve. Wasn't he supposed to be the pro at this? Patience, lying in wait... the stakeout. Why was this petite, effusive, socially well-adjusted, seemingly sweet girl able to keep pace with the lone wolf, antisocial, hermit? She should've cracked by now. She should've snapped first, falling to the mores of polite society, the pressure to make small talk, or any kind of talk whilst in the company of another human being for such a prolonged and rather intimate period of time.

Forcing his attention elsewhere in a desperate bid not to be the first to cave, not to just blurt out 'What's up with you lately?' and cause her to withdraw even further, Callen began to silently translate the signs in the storefronts along the street into every language he knew.

It was a stupid plan. He was an idiot. An emotionally handicapped idiot. He could charm and sway a complete stranger, but when it came to deeper, more significant, long-lasting relationships... he was an idiot. He would never in a million years admit it, but he'd lucked out with Sam, and with the others, too, for that matter, that they were able to tolerate him, that they persistently reached out to him, that they put in the effort to be more than just his team mates, but his friends, his _family_. Except, Nell Jones apparently had had enough, to the point where she just didn't seem to care about having any sort of relationship with him outside of complete professionalism.

And how did he think forcing her to sit with him in a cramped car for five hours straight, staking out a suspected terrorist cell headquarters housed in an innocuous looking import shop, would help?

How had he talked Hetty into letting him take Nell along? The old spy obviously knew what he was trying to do, had of course seen right through his excuse that since Nell wanted to be a field agent someday, she needed more experience, in all aspects of operations. So, Hetty must've thought it was the right thing to do... but maybe she assumed he'd already thought about what to say to the young woman, how to mend whatever fracture he'd made. And Callen might be an emotional idiot, but he did know it was something _he_ did. And all he could think of was... Lukas Braun. Nell had seemed okay for awhile after, had taken good care of him despite his cranky ass. But maybe she had simply been holding it together for him, finally cracked, and had withdrawn.

God, she was an impressively strong individual. He had an inkling that somehow her strength was even beyond that of the rest of the team, including his world-weary, damaged self. The rest of them had suffered loss and hurt from the world. Comparatively, Nell had a very charmed life so far, which only made that strong-willed core of hers all the more impressive. It was a natural strength of character, and with training, Callen did not doubt she could do anything, become _anything _she wanted to be. And he found that he wanted to see that happen, wanted to help make that happen, watch her achieve her potential.

He didn't want to be shut out of her life.

"Is this because I took control of the Braun situation?" he asked, making her head snap towards him in a startled gesture, an alarmed look flashing across her face before she schooled her features with the recent impassive expression he'd come very much to dislike. "You're mad at me because I took away your choice, because I made you run away from a fight?"

"I'm not mad at you," she said, her voice so calm it was obviously a forced tone.

"You're not mad at me?" He echoed, unable to mitigate the sarcasm in his own voice. "The whole cold shoulder thing could've fooled me."

"I..." She took a deep breath. "It's just how things need to be."

"Need to be?" Callen hated himself for it, but he was mirroring her like he was reading out of the old Therapist Handbook.

"Yes." He watched her swallow, emotions combating in the features of her face, the corner of her mouth twitching, her hazel eyes an interesting battle of amber and sage. "I can't... I just can't."

"Can't what?" This was utterly confusing. Had he misread the situation entirely? Of course, he had. Because he was an emotional idiot. He was so stupid, he hadn't even been able to read his own feelings. The whole thing with Joelle proved that. His trying to fool himself into believing he liked her in anything more than a fleeting way. He hadn't even realized what had attracted him to the woman was the idea that he could be normal. But he wasn't. And it was the most idiotic thing he'd ever done, trying to delude himself into believing he could have that kind of normal boy-meets-girl romance, that he could just pretend to be someone else and it might somehow be real, that he thought he'd even _wanted_ that... So why the hell did he think he could tell what was going on inside Nell's head? Nell's complex, extremely intelligent head?

"Nell, I want to help." The desperate honesty in the statement didn't go unnoticed by the petite agent sitting in the passenger seat of the car. "I want to be your friend. If something's bothering you..."

"It's nothing." Her hard exterior was faltering, cracking, her voice strained as she spoke, and she hastily looked away, her hand subtly rising to her face. God, she was crying? He'd made her cry?!

"It's not nothing," he said, feeling something in his chest tightening, because the optimistic, clever, lovely intelligence analyst was hurting. And he had no idea how to make it stop. She'd been physically banged up before, often because of his failure to protect her in his capacity as team leader. But he'd known what to do then, how to tend to her wounds. This, this... Had he mentioned before that he was an emotional idiot?

"You don't have to tell me," he said, more quietly, his fingers twitching as he instinctively wanted to reach out to her but simultaneously was terrified that touching her would make everything worse. And yet he could remember how easily she'd comforted him with the slightest of physical contacts. How unafraid she was to expose her raw, compassionate heart. How she had held him when they'd rescued him in that molding, hellish basement. It was like a delirious fever nightmare, but he remembered what it felt like, the relief so intense it was another pain when they'd cut him down, and Sam's strong hands caught him, lowered him, not to the cold, dirty floor as he'd expected, but to something warm and soft, Nell's lap. Her arms around him, her hands touching him, more in desperation than gentleness but soothing even as his abused flesh stung beneath the contact of her delicate fingers. Her tear-streaked face filling his vision even as he faded in and out of consciousness. Her hazel eyes, a battle between amber and sage, and rimmed with red. Damn him, she'd done so much for him, why couldn't he comfort her?

"But I'm more than willing to listen, if you want to talk about it."

Oh, screw it. He took the hand that was clawing at the skirt covering her thigh, gave it a gentle squeeze. See, he could do this. He could be a good friend.

"Oh, fuck."

The whispered profanity, the likes of which he'd never before heard on her lips, even in the direst of situations, made his eyes grow wide, and so it was a shocked expression she met when she finally turned her face towards him. And, yes, she was crying. That writhing, coiling and uncoiling knot of pain stung his chest once more.

Nell sighed.

"You almost died because of me."

He shook his head. "No, Nell. _You_ almost died because of _me_. Lukas Braun was an enemy I made, not you."

"Nevertheless... it happened," she said, and he knew enough by the look on her face not to interrupt her again, no matter how vehemently he may disagree with her next words. "And I can't do this job when I'm too close to those who rely on me with their lives."

Callen clenched his jaw so as not to protest. She was afraid of being hurt if one of them... It was understandable, but she hadn't turned cold to the rest like she had to him.

"And I can't just interfere in your lives, either." She swallowed back a sob, took a deep breath and let it out as if she were preparing to meditate. "I realized I was in the way. And I was too close. Because of what happened, I became too invested in you. I had to step back. And the only way I knew how was to withdraw entirely. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

What an asshole, he was. She was hurting because of him, because she thought she cared too much about him, and now, now she felt awful because she thought she'd hurt his feelings. Nell Jones... he didn't know people like her existed.

"There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves," Callen said quietly. It was a quote from Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen of all things... He hadn't thought he'd like the notoriously girly novels of the 19th century author, but there was something appealing in her characters, something that transcended history, gender, social background. It was a literary introduction Nell had made to him, one of many. And that one quote stuck with him, seemed to perfectly frame the ideal which he wished he could truly live by, which he realized Nell Jones did.

So how could she shut part of herself off, deny her true nature, like she seemed to think she needed to do?

_And who the hell gave her that idea?_

* * *

**A/N: Who gave Nell the idea that she had to distance herself from her team, had to be responsible for them, I wonder… *cough*Hetty*cough* **

**A/N2: So, Callen sort of knows the problem. Will he be able to fix it, and get his little pixie friend back?**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: I know you all were hoping they finally would get their acts together and openly confront the problem, but what in Nell Jones and G Callen's wily characters would make you believe them capable of that… especially when they haven't even admitted to themselves the extent of the situation…? (I do promise this will all be resolved in the next chapter. Also, see below notes on the character inconsistency in this piece, which I will hopefully shortly repair).**

* * *

There was a suspicious package waiting for Nell Jones when she finally made it up to ops, after a morning filled with problem-solving for everything from a malfunctioning coffee maker to two agents bickering over what size the new Valentino cocktail dress should be ordered in. The package wasn't suspicious in the 'possibly a bomb that is going to explode in someone's face' sort of way, but suspicious in the 'there is absolutely no reason for a white box with a red ribbon neatly tied about it to be sitting on my desk' sort of way.

She leaned carefully over it, not touching it. Because, well, you never _did_ know. There appeared to be a small tag attached, with her name scribbled on it in a familiar scrawl. She wondered if he knew she would recognize his penmanship on sight, or if it was meant to be a mystery gift. Well, more of a mystery than its appearance already was. Why would he...? When she...?

It didn't explode when she touched it. Or when she tugged on the ends of the satin ribbon and bow shrank away and then released the knot, and she pulled the top of the small box off and smiled in an utterly bemused sort of way at its contents.

He'd wrapped it with all the pomp of a gift of expensive jewelry, likely knowing how much more she appreciated a good, worn book to any shiny trinket. The value of it was maybe a couple dollars. And when she removed it from the box and flipped open the cover, written in pencil on the upper right hand corner of the first page was '$1.50'. This penmanship, she too recognized, as belonging to the owner of the used book shop three blocks from her apartment. She fanned through the pages with her thumb, catching little glimpses of notes scribbled into the margins by the novel's various owners, and smiled. She loved used books. Not only did they possess the creative masterpiece of the author, but the fleeting impressions of all those who'd touched the specific volume.

And it was one of her favorites.

She fought the laugh as she remembered the first time she'd pressured G Callen into reading one of Jane Austen's novels. The protests, the assertions that it just wasn't in his taste, the extremely displeased face he pulled as she put _Emma_ into his hands and somehow manipulated him into promising her he'd try it, telling him that he would enjoy Jane Austen's wit, her understanding and mocking of societal constructs and norms.

And now, he'd given her _Persuasion_. And Nell tried to find the significance in the gift. What was he up to? What was he trying to tell her? With G Callen, this sort of gesture was more than a _please forgive me for whatever I've done wrong_... even though he hadn't done anything wrong at all. But between this and the whole stakeout thing, Nell was feeling extremely guilty for alienating the man who obviously valued their friendship more than she'd thought.

It was a battered edition dating to probably the 1970s, judging by the cover art. Newer publications tended to favor using Regency era paintings. This had a brightly colored, modish illustration, yellowing at the edges. It was paperback, well-worn. And her palms itched to crack it open along one of the many creases marring the spine, to delve into the story of Anne Elliot, but also to peruse any little hints of personality and personal history left by the book's previous owners. Was there a hidden message in that, or in the story itself? Nell would not know until she was able to sit down and indulge in the exploration of the new world given to her.

And sadly, she had work to do, so she would have to spend the next few hours with the puzzle sitting on the back burner of her mind.

…

The young woman was curled up on the end of the lounge sofa, her legs tucked up under her, her chin resting on her hand, her elbow resting on the overstuffed arm of the couch beside the book she held open there, reading intently. He studied her out of the corner of his eye while feigning attention to the bickering of his team as they ate from greasy white boxes. Well, all but Sam, who had opted for the healthier sushi selection on the Asian restaurant's takeout menu. And, as it often was, the banter seemed to be focused on food and nutritional choices.

But Callen's attention was centered on Nell Jones as she sat engrossed in the present he had left for her. Maybe he shouldn't have wrapped it like it was a gift from a secret admirer... But he just couldn't resist engaging her with some intrigue and mystery. Oh, he didn't doubt that she knew who it was from, although he hadn't written his name on the tag. But neither was there any sort of explanation. And deliberately so. For she'd been successfully remaining in a detached sort of association with him, even after that unpleasant scene on the stakeout, which left him in no doubt that she was unhappy. In no doubt that he was the cause of her unhappiness, even if it was the result of some sort of choice she had made, one he could not fathom.

And although he apparently did not understand the intelligence analyst as well as he thought, there was one fact he was absolutely certain of... Nell Jones liked a good puzzle.

There were lots of notes in this particular copy of Jane Austen's _Persuasion_, which had been a significant part of the appeal in his selection of it. His own small edition to the worn paperback could easily go unnoticed, undifferentiated from the rest. Except, this discerning reader was Nell Jones, a woman whose brain was not only made to detect patterns and anomalies, but also trained and honed to do so. When she reached the small alteration he made, she'd notice.

But what would she make of it? Of those lines of underlined text?

"Right, G?"

His name snapped his attention back to the jokes and laughter of his team. He honestly had no clue what they were talking about, what he was being prompted to agree with. But he agreed anyway, which prompted another round of laughter, which he decided to use for his cover. He'd been avoiding the conversation with Hetty, afraid she would try to talk him out of his continued attempt to make amends with Nell, apprehensive that the older woman would tell him precisely what he feared, that his preoccupation with returning to Nell's good graces had crossed a line, had maybe become obsessive?

"Got a minute?" he asked, standing in front of Henrietta Lange's desk, somehow feeling intimidated by the extremely small woman demurely seated with a cup of tea.

"Hopefully, I have many more minutes before I..." She made a vague motion with her tea cup. "...run out."

Well, that was a fun thought. Seeming to read his discomfort upon the subject of her age, she smiled.

"But whether many or few, I believe I may spare some for you, Mr. Callen."

Okay, so she was in a good mood at least... for now.

He sat down, pulled the chair a little closer. It was in the middle of the day, and anyone could just walk up and eavesdrop on their conversation.

"What did you say to Nell?" he asked, deciding to opt for blunt.

Hetty only gave him an inquiring look, one of the 'bemused innocent', which did not fool him in the least.

"Maybe you didn't say anything specific to her, Hetty, but something you did or implied she should do... You convinced her that I'm not a friend to her."

The air seemed to have left his lungs as he waited for the old spy's response. All-in-all, he thought he'd done pretty well, not losing his temper, but still calling her out on the wrong she'd done him by alienating Nell to him.

"It saddens me that you think I would ever do such a thing, Mr. Callen."

He ground his molars together. She was playing it evasive? Really?!

"Me, too, Hetty."

He pushed the chair back with a squeak of the wooden legs on the wooden floor as he rose to storm off, but the woman he couldn't deny had been the only real parental figure to him in his entire life put up a placating hand, causing him to pause. With a slow turn of her wrist, she transformed the gesture into an invitation to sit once more.

"Please, take a moment, choose your words carefully, and tell me precisely what's bothering you. And what you'd like me to do to resolve it."

_Well, for one thing, being spoken to like a two year old! _Callen thought. But he did follow her instructions. Enough with the enigmatic bullshit that all of his conversations with Hetty tended to be.

"I told you," he said, resuming his seat. "I know it's some idea that you've put in her head that's caused Nell to..."

He wasn't sure how exactly to describe her behavior...

" to _withdraw_ from me, from our..."

_Just admit it, you have feelings, you care about those close to you._

"...friendship."

"I see," Hetty said. "You believe it's my fault that Nell has been avoiding you, that you no longer have the same rapport as previously."

"I thought it was just the Lukas Braun _incident_," he said, choosing to ignore the way the older woman was ignoring his anger with her, easily seeing the true source was an anger with himself. Whether it was because he felt like he'd done something that hurt the young woman, or that he was upset that the loss of her bothered him so much when he thought he'd insulated himself against suffering such pain anymore, he didn't know.

"But it's not?" Hetty took a sip of her tea, watching him all the while. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

"I don't think so."

"You've given her a copy of _Persuasion_," Hetty said. He only wondered for a second how she'd known. It wasn't likely Nell told anybody. And he certainly had not. But that was no reason Henrietta Lange wouldn't know. She set the tea cup down, focused her entire attention upon him. "Care to tell me why?"

He shrugged. "She likes Jane Austen."

Not going to cut it.

"Are you trying to tell her that you think she's been influenced against the nature of heart?"

"That's a little dramatic, Hetty." Callen shifted uncomfortably in the chair, and wasn't sure why.

"Is it?"

They stared one another down. Hetty knew. Hetty knew that he knew… Knew why Nell had withdrawn from him, but it was easier to blame someone else, to think it was because of something stupid he'd said or done. But Nell was not so fickle. He had hurt her by allowing himself to be hurt, by showing her what it meant to be close to people who daily put their lives on the line. The young woman more than anything wanted to be an excellent agent, wanted to achieve great things, wanted to please her mentors, to prove to them -to Henrietta Lange- that she could do anything required of her, anything her country needed her to do. And so emulating the woman she most respected in the world, who had been subtly (and not so subtly) grooming her since day one, Nell Jones had withdrawn, had decided it best not allow herself to become so close to people she may have to send to their deaths. The implications about why she'd focused her determined detachment particularly upon himself, however, Callen did not, _would not _entertain.

"I believe Nell was the one who introduced you to the literary works of Jane Austen," Hetty said, as if they were having a normal conversation that would take place over any cup of tea. "She gave you _Emma_, did she not?"

Callen frowned. Hetty's tone indicated that there was something telling in the fact, in Nell's choice. He didn't want to consider it, either.

He just wanted his old Nell back, his petite pixie friend, who practiced languages and codes with him, who discussed novels -literary and pop culture alike- with him, who smiled when she greeted him in the morning, who shared lunch with him at least once a week, who was the solid reassuring, even comforting, voice in his ear, guiding him when operations took a turn for the worse, and comforting him when he was hurt. He missed her. He wanted her back.

Again, Callen made to leave, but Hetty stopped him with her next comment.

"I understand that you and Ms. Taylor have parted ways."

"Joelle won't be a problem," Callen said. "You can keep tabs on her for a few weeks to be sure, but she's not going to go telling the world who I am, where to find me."

"That wasn't my concern," Hetty said.

Callen's brow furrowed as he tried to get a read on the woman who could don a face as placid as a Buddha statue.

"You think I did the wrong thing by ending it?" Callen asked, still attempting and failing to pick up any hint of his boss' thoughts.

"Not at all, Mr. Callen," she said. "Not at all."

Her tone indicated that he was dismissed, and he left, more confused than before.

Nell Jones was still sitting on the sofa, reading, her lunch forgotten and neglected, probably cold by now, on the coffee table. There was a faint smile curving her lips, and he could see her eyes eagerly sweeping over the page below her auburn lashes. The sight of her happy warmed him, that he could still make her smile, in a roundabout way, despite whatever issues they had.

…

It had been a strange sort of day, but if Nell was honest with herself, one in which she'd felt more normal. It wasn't as if things had completely changed. She hadn't even stopped reading when she'd begun to distance herself from G Callen, but the experience was a more lonely one, because somewhere along the line, every time she read a book, it was no longer just a personal journey. Often, she found herself thinking about what his reaction would be to a certain line of dialogue, characterization, passage, or technical error. True, she still thought these things as she read, unable to just turn off the habit that had become ingrained over the past few years of their book nerd friendship. But knowing that they were discussions she could not have with the man, not if she wanted to preserve her emotionally detached status, it made reading a bittersweet escape from reality.

And then he went and gave her this book. One she'd read before, one that was always a different experience to reread, but also one that he'd utterly transformed and renewed, as she hunted for the meaning in the gift of it. Oh, she knew she shouldn't, for the sake of the freshly built and rather flimsy wall she'd erected to contain her soft heart. He knew she was a sucker for books, and especially Jane Austen. Perhaps she should be studying Callen's manipulative strategies, for he was as much a grandmaster as Henrietta Lange. By simply underlining one portion of text in a beat-up copy of _Persuasion_, he'd thrown her into utter chaos, had her pacing and fidgeting and chewing her lip as soon as she'd finished the novel, neglecting her dinner as she had earlier done with her lunch.

Because he'd highlighted a passage that clearly stated his thoughts on her recent treatment of his person, which was obvious simply from the title...

_If I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I thought it was to duty..._

Nell Jones had been persuaded against her natural affinity to befriend and _love_ in order to protect her soft heart, because of a sense of duty, because she was influenced to believe she needed to harden herself to fulfill her responsibilities. Obviously, Callen did not believe that was the case. But she doubted he had an alternative to suggest to her, how she could prevent her heart from breaking when he -when any of them- were inevitably hurt or... or _killed_.

But that wasn't the most troublesome part of the whole gesture he'd made. All the turmoil of deciding to become a stone-cold bitch had plagued her for weeks. What had her heart beating a little too fast and her mind processing a hundred different conversations, a thousand micro-gestures, searching for the truth, was the implication of the rest. Because the driving force of the story, what made the entire novel he'd given her possible, was the unwavering admiration of Captain Wentworth for Anne Eliot, despite her dismissal of him.

It probably meant nothing. She wouldn't read into it all, except for the stupid knowledge that Callen had ended things with Joelle. Why had he gone and done that? Just as Nell pulled away, to give him space -no, to protect herself, to better do her job. Shit. The whole situation was driving her insane. She paced about her apartment, for who knew how long, thinking herself into stupid circles, until a knock on the door made her heart skip a beat.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, realized somewhere along the lines, I've changed the back story for these two, now giving them a more intimate sort of friendship pre-Lukas Braun incident than I had written in the beginning, but it was necessary for this to take a romance sort of turn, because the nature of their characters both require something more than just a traumatic experience for them to fall in love. They require a basis of friendship, which I'm going to have to go back through this story and insert/hint at more, since I'd started it out very canon not-possessing-personal-lives (which is never good for actual character development). **

**A/N2: Apologies for the Jane Austen-ing, but it was the easiest way to make them communicate (when I've now decided their past friendship has been of the book nerd variety), but also have subconscious underlying meaning that is lurking in the back of their minds but they're refusing to recognize. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Not sure how I feel about this… which is probably why I took so long to post it.**

**WARNING: There's some MATURE SUBJECT MATTER (smut) near the end.**

* * *

He hesitated at the door, which was stupid. G Callen could be called many things, but indecisive was not one of them. Obviously, he'd already made the decision, since he was standing before her door. Because the odd little conversation with Hetty hadn't left him, had plagued him until he knew he had to face its insinuations head on.

He knocked.

There was the sound of footsteps from within, and then an odd 'scraping of wood on wood' sort of noise, a couple thumps, the scraping again.

Strange.

But then door was opened, and Nell Jones greeted him. With a smile, of all things. She appeared a little apprehensive about his presence, in the pucker between her eyebrows and the purse of her lips that followed her smile, but her good mood remained pervasive. His appearance was not enough to ruin it.

She invited him inside, and as she closed the door, the source of the odd noises was revealed.

"You have a step stool," he said, trying and failing to conceal the chuckle of mirth from his voice. "You can't reach the peephole can you?"

She glared at him, but it wasn't an expression of pure malice.

"Can I help you with something, Agent Callen?"

A line she'd give him at work, one she'd never used on him in their personal encounters before, when they'd met as friends to go book hunting or to try a newly discovered greasy spoon. Coming from a rural area, she appreciated a good diner as much as his taste for the artery-clogging food had him an admirer of the home style restaurants. For himself, he used the excuse of growing up never knowing where his next meal might come from, it tended to train one to go for the high calorie, high fat foods, an instinctual survival trait.

He frowned at her.

"Yes."

She'd been avoiding his gaze, but the curt and frank response caused her eyes to snap to his and then they were locked in a disturbingly revealing staring contest.

"You gave me _Emma_," he said. And then watched as her eidetic memory pulled up the entire novel and the circumstances upon which she'd presented it to him. Jane Austen's _Emma_, a novel about a clever young woman who liked to meddle in the lives of others, who felt it her responsibility to manage and care for those around her, who sacrifices a romantic life out of a sense of duty, who falls in love with a man sixteen years her senior, a man she's always respected, a man who's been her close friend for many years. "You made me promise to read _Emma_, Nell. You never insisted that I read anything else, in the hundreds of books we've exchanged over the past three years. Why _Emma_?"

He knew she'd followed his own analysis, the one that had preoccupied him all day, wanting not to believe it was true, and admittedly also a little excited by the implications if it were.

There was a pink blush coloring her cream-colored, lightly freckled cheeks, her hazel eyes growing wider with alarm, but then her expression hardened and he thought maybe he'd lost her, maybe the confrontation had forced her to shut down... until she spoke, her tone even and calm, but with a hint of accusation.

"You gave me _Persuasion_."

As Kensi and Deeks were fond of bandying back and forth; _touche_.

Consciously, he'd meant to point out how she'd let Hetty influence her, convince her to make decisions contrary to her nature, ones she would never make when left to her own system of logic, to the mercy of her own amiable heart. For as much as Nell Jones was cleverness, she was compassion. It was at the core of what amazed him about her. She was both smarter than him and more emotionally aware, more loving and empathetic. And he hadn't realized how much he needed her in his life until she was gone. But not completely gone. Please, never that.

"Nell... You... I..." He sighed heavily. Just because he enjoyed being labeled the loner type, didn't mean he had difficulty finding words... usually. But this, this was his whole emotionally handicapped issue. How had Joelle stuck around for so long…? Oh, right, he'd been lying to her. So how could he convince Nell to give him a chance, when he didn't deserve it?

Because he'd never lied to her. Not about who he was or how he felt.

"Don't become like Hetty," he said, the words finally coming with ease, for he no longer sought the delicate, diplomatic option. "Don't become like me."

Nell looked at him, her big eyes sympathetic and curious, encouraging him to continue. His palm itched to touch her, and he resisted momentarily, before giving in and gently running his fingertips over the smooth skin of her cheek, tracing the shell of her ear before burying them in her hair as he cupped her face.

"You're special, Nell," he said. "Your sort of unwavering compassion is rare in the world. Don't be so hasty to lock it up and let it waste away. Please. I don't want to watch that happen."

Her lips trembled and her eyes shone as if she were about to cry. He didn't want to see her cry again, either, but had to let her know it would be okay, that is was okay for her to be herself, that he would never get in the way of that.

"If it's me, I'll leave."

Her slender fingers wrapped about his wrist, and she turned into the hand that cupped her face, placing a kiss on his palm that sent a shiver along his spine.

"Don't leave," she said softly, looking at him with her absurdly beautiful, big eyes. "Don't ever leave. Please."

It was quite apparent, even to an emotional idiot, what she meant. She had pushed him away because what she really wanted to do was pull him close, and it had terrified her. There was a knot of anxiety in his own stomach, realizing he wanted the same, that his life would be so empty without her, that if anything, he wanted to be closer to her than the bounds of their previous friendship allowed. He supposed it'd been easy to date, to pretend with Joelle, because he'd still had Nell, her smile, her wit, her penchant for intense and interesting conversation that rivaled her joviality. As soon as she'd withdrawn, and he'd lost the support that he never realized he'd come to rely upon, things had fallen apart quickly with his supposed girlfriend.

Joelle had been his girlfriend in all of the conventional ways, but Nell had been there in all the ways he truly needed. He'd taken her for granted, and felt guilty beyond reason for doing so. Worse, he felt guilty for wanting to wrap his arms around her and hold her petite body tight to him, to somehow kidnap her from her own life, her own dreams and future and make her the center of his own.

Wait. What? Did he really want her in his life like that?

He looked down at her, her expressive, sympathetic face, her gorgeous eyes that held both an innocence and cleverness beyond him... Before he knew exactly what he was doing, Callen reached out and pulled her into a hug, feeling her curves mold against him, her own arms wrap around his waist, her breath warm over his heart where she buried her face in his shirt... And he sighed a relief from the very depths of his soul.

"I won't willingly leave you, Nell," he said quietly before pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair smelled of strawberries. "Not ever."

He released her, stepped back to study her face once more, the words pushing at the back of his throat, screaming in his brain, yet not able to get out._Say you'll do the same, Nell. Promise me you'll never leave me. Tell me you want to be with me..._

Even without the words, she seemed to understand, taking his hand and leading him into her living room. Sitting him on the couch before her, she reached out, her fingertips dancing lightly over his shirt before settling on the top button.

He didn't say a word, or stay her hand as she proceeded to unbutton his shirt, climbing onto his lap so she could better examine the yet still grotesque scars, raised and livid in the way of freshly healed wounds. The stitches all had come out weeks ago and he'd been declared fully recovered, but the evidence of his torture had not faded.

Her hands were cool against his skin.

"See," Callen said, as the young woman sitting in his lap ran her chilled, slender fingers over his bare chest. "No lasting harm."

"_No lasting harm_?" Nell Jones stopped tracing one of the long, raised scars marring his torso. She looked up, pinning him with hazel eyes gone bright with unshed tears, illustrating just how incorrect that argument was. Emotionally, her wounds had barely begun to close. He could see that in her eyes.

He took her face in his hands, stared back into her, willing her to understand, to believe the sincerity of his explanation.

"I'm a survivor, Nell," he said. "We _both_ are. And we're alright."

"One of these times we won't be," she said, the tears finally spilling over. "I don't want to lose you. And you can make all the promises you want, but it's not always going to be in your power to keep them. "

He brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, feeling an empathetic knot tighten in his chest. He could think of nothing worse than losing her, except...

"Do you think it's any better to never be together at all?" he asked, his voice quiet, unsure whether he was trying to convince her or himself. "Just to avoid the inevitable pain of separation?"

She looked at him, the only sign of the tears she'd shed fading red streaks on her cheeks. Her eyes were as piercing as they'd ever been as she blatantly scrutinized what felt like his very soul. Oh, she knew what he was telling her, what he was asking her for, knew how he felt about her, how important she was to him. He did nothing to hide it.

And then she was silencing him with a kiss, one he willingly succumbed to, all warmth and softness, and her cherry lip gloss. He slid his hands from her face to tangle in her hair, as her gentle, almost timid embrace transformed into one of passion, hunger and _need_.

They kissed in an intent silence, filled only with the sounds of their increasingly labored breathing and small, contented moans of pleasure. Hands began to wander. His down her back to her waist, beginning to caress the delicious curves of her sides and hips. Hers began to stroke the nape of his neck, her fingers digging into the tense muscles, making him groan over the impromptu massage.

Kissing Nell Jones felt _insanely_ good. And somehow _right_.

But just as he felt himself really getting into it, she pulled away, breaking off their kiss and then locking those captivating hazel eyes upon him once more. Before he could question her hesitation, he discovered it was not hesitation at all, but _decision_, for her beautiful little hands reached down between them, unfastened his jeans and found the firm arousal she had catalyzed. He groaned in lustful reaction, part satisfaction at being touched, part wistful anticipation of more.

Nell released him, and it was a devastating sense of abandonment that washed over him as she also extricated herself from his lap. But she never removed her eyes from his, even as she reached her hands up under her skirt, rucking up the fabric enough to reveal a wedge of creamy skin above her thigh-high grey argyle print tights. And then she was shimmying out of her panties, leaving them in a pool of polka-dot cotton jersey on the hardwood floor, before she was climbing into his lap once more, straddling him so that his erection brushed against the thatch of hair between her thighs.

"Nell, wait a-" His protest was cut short by a loud moan forcing its way from deep in his throat, the cause of which was Nell Jones deftly reaching for him once more and then taking him inside of her with one smooth plunge of her hips. She was so warm and snug that he forgot what had made him hesitant about this goddamned blissful moment, even as she paused, giving him a curious look.

"God, you feel good," he said. "But..." what was it? Oh, shit, right. "What about a condom?"

The look in her eyes shifted slightly, but the intensity remained.

"Oh, we're fine on my end," she said, and then quirked an eyebrow in question.

"Mine, too," he said. But that didn't matter. He always used one. Always, no matter whether they discussed their sexual histories and were both clean. No matter whether she was on birth control. Always. He looked directly into Nell's big, beautiful, terrifyingly intense hazel eyes.

Not this time. This time, it was him and her. The trust, the respect, the affection between them... unlike any he'd ever held for another person. This wasn't about sex.

She smiled and leaned in for a kiss. And then she began to move...

Callen knew he would thoroughly enjoy exploring every inch of the supple, vivacious, _beautiful_, auburn-haired young woman's body. But he had to admit that he was glad that she remained fully clothed bar her discarded panties and the wondrous merging of their bodies. There was no distraction for him, just her heavenly warmth and slick yet resistant flesh... and her breathtaking eyes, amber and whiskey with a starburst of green, pupils dilated into expansive universes of midnight black, holding him captive.

Her eyes continued to hold his, even as her breathing and pace quickened, the rise and plunge of her hips creating an unbearable frisson of pleasure, that was only intensified by the captivating universe contained in Nell Jones' eyes. She simultaneously penetrated his very soul with her gaze, and invited him into her own complex, spirited one.

It was trust. And respect. Apology and sympathy. Tenderness and affection. Frustration and vexation. Conflict and confluence. Friendship. Love. Need. Lust- Callen battled the imminent climax brought about by the absolutely breathtaking creature in his lap.

Nell Jones.

She could undo him entirely with just one more touch, a word, a flash of those beguiling eyes. And she felt so, so very... _good_. But he wanted her to climax with him, to complete the bond between them.

"It's okay," she said, breathless with exertion. How could she know him so well as to read his very mind, when he'd always done everything in his power to keep the entire world out? "I've got you."

She locked eyes with him, and then he felt her inner muscles tense, gripping him unbearably tight as she plunged down once more, his hips reflexively thrusting upward, driving himself deeply, forcefully into her as he came, her name on his lips.

When reality reasserted itself slightly, Nell was kissing his neck with a slow, deliberate sort of affection. Her breath tickled when she whispered into his ear, and he reflexively held her tighter, promising himself to never let go.

"I love you." He'd always been afraid of those words, but coming from her lips, from the young woman who'd slowly become his closest friend, who seemed to understand him in a way no other person had, and amazingly, had come to care about him so fiercely... his heart seemed to beat faster with the joy of it. "I want to be with you."

"I love you, too, Nell," he said, happy to realize he didn't say it because he felt obligated or pressured to do so, to please her, but because he truly meant it. And it wasn't a sacrifice at all, as he feared it would be, to surrender part of his heart and soul to her. Rather, it was a liberating feeling.

For the first time in as long as he remembered, he felt a weight lift from his overburdened soul.

* * *

**A/N: I think it's done. But I also think Nell needs some say… so maybe an epilogue/one more chapter.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Sorry this is so short. But it's been written for a couple weeks now, and doesn't seem to want to be anything more every time I return to it, so… This is it…**

* * *

Who would've ever suspected that G Callen would be so wonderfully _cuddleable_?

He was warm, and in contrast to the daytime -and probably most of the time, actually, day or night- when he was all rigid and tense with anticipation of imminent threats, he was also pleasantly soft to curl up against. The steady rhythm of his breathing and his heart was the best lullaby that had ever lulled her to sleep.

Nell buried her face against the naked skin of his chest lightly dusted with soft curls of hair, and breathed in the musky scent of a male recently sexually sated. She sighed, thoroughly pleased with herself, and with him, before she turned her cheek to lay against his chest and studied the scars marring his lovely skin, illustrating the passage of bullets, the sharp kiss of steel, the slow and agonizing caress of a blade flaying him alive. Instinctively she squeezed herself tighter around his abused body, wanting to protect him even from injuries he'd already sustained, that were in the past, that she was powerless to prevent, to change.

And would she change it? Would she save him from all the suffering he'd known?

The answer of course, was _yes_, even knowing he would not be the man he was, the man who'd she'd taken into her bed because he'd already invaded her heart. She regretted any and all pain he'd ever suffered, physically and emotionally, even while she loved him for the man it had molded him into becoming, how it had ultimately led him, led _them _to this moment of pure contentment. So, so blissful. The best moment she'd ever known, wrapped up in him, happy and safe and carefree. When she died, this would be her heaven.

Or perhaps it would be staring into his beautiful blue eyes as he looked into her soul and made love to her body. That, too, she could only describe as a transcendent moment.

The logical part of her brain asked whether it was enough, the physical pleasure of being with Callen?

Her heart argued that her feelings of happiness weren't just physical. And that it _was_ worth even a minute of lying in his arms.

Besides, the point was moot.

Nell Jones had made her decision. And it was a relief beyond measure, despite the consequences. Loving G Callen, being with him for as long as he would have her, as long as either of them lived... It contravened all of her plans for her own future. But hell, they'd sort of been derailed a while back. Well, _derailed_ wasn't so apt as _mired_. She'd found a comfortable place, and it was easy to just fall into the routine, to accept her almost monotonous life, the very slow progression of becoming a field agent, the complete lack of personal relationships outside of her work friends. But she'd had plans, for a family, a career, saving the world.

Now, now she would settle for simply saving _him_. And her own heart along with his. Oh, she knew better than to think she could save him from his dangerous life, from the risky career that was more identity than job to the man. Not to mention, she didn't want to do that, to try to change who G Callen was. He was an amazing, passionate, strong, loyal man, and she never wanted him to change.

Sometimes, though, it seemed like he needed a reason not to do incredibly stupid things, something or someone to ground him, with whom he could share all the lasting aches and pains of his suffering... if he wanted to. Nell wanted to do that for him, more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. More than the house with the white picket fence, the three children and a dog, and loving husband who worked a regular 9-to-5 job. More than the long and successful career, saving the world. She would sacrifice it all, for _him_.

Because sometimes _love _meant making sacrifices. And sometimes it turned out not to be a sacrifice at all.

END


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